


Striptease

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Series: Striptease [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Comedy, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and the others escaped from prison and are waiting to collect Westmoreland's cash, but before they can do so, they need money right now. Michael, as always, has the solution: striptease!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not canon-compliant, as you may have guessed, after the s1 finale. The premise is as follows:  
> *the boys have escaped Fox River together and crossed the border to Mexico  
> *there was no plane waiting for them  
> *they know where Westmoreland's millions are, but have decided to wait a while for some of the fuss to die down
> 
> There, all set. Of course I've shamelessly stolen the plot from _The Full Monty_ , all for the sake of comedy. Which turns into comedy with porn. Hope you enjoy!

“Whatcha got there, Pretty?”

“Our budget. And don't call me that,” Michael said for what seemed like the thousandth time since they got here. Just over two weeks and T-Bag was getting on his nerves more than he ever had in Fox River.

“Why are you working on that now? We in trouble?” Lincoln asked, his brow furrowing. Over the two weeks they'd been living in the small Mexican town, he'd relaxed notably, but he still sensed it whenever his brother was tense or worried.

“No, because we're short. We have enough cash to live like this for two, maybe three weeks more, but then we're out. And we can't go get Westmoreland's money now; it's too risky.”

“What're you saying, Fish?” Abruzzi asked from his cot, the one in the corner furthest from the door.

“I'm saying we have to do something. We need money, and we need it quick. Any suggestions?” Michael said, addressing the whole room.

Lincoln sat down next to Michael on his cot and stared at his hands. Sucre and C-Note, currently playing cards on an upturned crate in the middle of the dusty floor, looked up at him and then back down at the cards, muttering their suggestionlessness.

“Why don't we just ´borrow` some?” Abruzzi demanded. “It's not like we'll be doing something we ain't done before.”

“Because,” Michael explained patiently, “we can't afford to draw attention to this place. Have you noticed much crime going on here, John? I sure haven't. The only ones to ever come here are tourists and natives, and we have to keep it that way.”

“I got an idea, Pretty,” T-Bag drawled, reclining against the wall by Michael's cot.

Michael looked up at him. “Don't call me that. What?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear _T-Bag's_ suggestion on anything.

The murderer leered at him. “Why don't you an' your brother there,” he looked at the two of them and licked his lips, “go out and use your good looks for somethin' lucrative, eh? I'd sure pay to thrust my cock down your throat, Pretty, if I had the cash.”

“You sick son of a -” Lincoln shot off the cot and was about to smash T-Bag's face in when Michael's hand on his arm stopped him.

“Linc, no! He's not worth it. Besides, he may be a sick pervert, but he just gave me an idea.”

Lincoln, breathing heavily and scowling at T-Bag like he wanted nothing more than to rip the older man's guts out, sat back down on his brothers' cot.

Michael sat back down, too; turning a page on the tiny notepad he always carried, he started scribbling furiously. The other men were curious, but knew better than to ask. When Michael was working on something, he was lost to the world.

Suddenly, he got up, stuffed the notepad and pencil in his pocket, and headed for the door. Pulling on a baseball cap, he exited without a word, closing the door softly behind him.

“Guess I offended him, eh?” T-Bag said with a chuckle. Lincoln rolled his eyes and laid back on his brother's cot.

Two weeks since they'd arrived in the small town just across the Mexican border. Two weeks since Michael had insisted that as long as they didn't draw attention to themselves, they were safe here. Two weeks of sleeping in this old, condemned warehouse on itchy cots (which were really nothing but an old tattered mattress with a blanket of varying wholeness) on the floor, and two weeks of eating the cheapest food that could be eaten without being cooked.

T-Bag was getting restless, Abruzzi prayed a lot more than was necessary (sometimes Lincoln wondered how his rosary still stuck together), Sucre and C-Note had all but worn out the deck of cards, and Michael, well...

Michael worried a lot. Sure, Lincoln was worried too; he kept looking over his shoulder when he walked outside and never went out without a cap or something to hide behind. But Michael worried not only about getting caught, but also about the financial problems, the security of the people they'd left behind, the promise he'd made to Abruzzi about Fibonacci... Lincoln knew his brother, and he knew that these last two weeks, Michael hadn't slept well. He was tense all day and restless in his sleep.

Lincoln wanted to do something to help, but he knew there wasn't much he could do. Not much, anyway. He'd moved his cot up next to Michael's, and sometimes, when his brother tossed around in sleep, whimpering and shivering, he'd reach out and grab Michael's hand. Michael would calm down then, stop moving about and sleep quietly. Lincoln knew it wasn't much but at least he got a few hours every night of restful sleep.

Of course, Lincoln watched his brother's back during day, too. Whenever T-Bag got a little too interested, like when Michael undressed to wash off (they had a barrel of rainwater in the backyard; sometimes they had to buy water in addition and sometimes they went to the small river outside the town in the middle of night) or when the paedophile was just too tired of sitting at his cot and staring at the wall; whenever T-Bag got like that, Lincoln would stay closer to Michael, flex his muscles and scowl at the older man.

But at moments like these, when Michael just went quiet and disappeared to take care of something... Usually they sent Sucre to do the shopping, since he spoke the language and was the least profiled of the escapees, but at times Michael would take care of things, like getting them some equipment or making arrangements. Lincoln just wished he knew whether Michael had gone to arrange an important plan or to buy a loaf of bread.

***

It was hours before Michael came back. He was carrying a six pack of beers. The stuff was incredibly cheap here, but they still only drunk what was necessary for survival – water. Something had to be up.

“Beer? What, we celebratin' somethin'?” T-Bag got up off his cot and sauntered over to where Michael was sitting down next to Lincoln. “Or are you tryin' to get us all wasted, Pretty?”

“If one beer gets you wasted, then you can have mine, too; maybe you'd shut up for just a second,” Sucre said, throwing one of his cards to the upturned crate. C-Note snorted a laugh. T-Bag cocked his head to one side, tongue playing around the corner of his mouth, and turned to the Puerto Rican.

Before he could reply, however, Michael opened his bottle. “Anyone else want one, or do Lincoln and I finish three each?”

The other men quickly moved to grab a beer. Michael indicated for them to sit down and cleared his throat.

“I figured out a way to solve our financial problems for at least a month more, after the cash we have now is gone. Hopefully that will leave us enough time to get the money Charles told us about, and if it doesn't, at least we won't have to worry about it for some time.

“We'll have to move to another town afterwards – there's a good place just twenty miles or so south of here – and I need complete cooperation from you. But I think this can work.”

Abruzzi raised an eyebrow at Michael. “Why would we want to move, Fish? Didn't you say that's why we're not stealing, 'cause we want to stay here?”

“No, that's because we don't want to draw attention to ourselves and to the fact that we're criminals. Well... That some of us are,” Michael added, smiling slightly at the mobster. Abruzzi grinned nastily. “But – we can't get caught for what I'm suggesting. And it'll earn us a lot more. How much do you think they have in the cash register in these stores at the end of the day? A hundred dollars, maybe two? That's not going to get us anywhere. I'm talking at least a hundred each – and that's just the tip.”

The five other men sat up straighter. Lincoln's brow furrowed. “Tip?”

Michael nodded. “Tip. We'll probably get the main profit from the entrance tickets, but the tip will make a helpful addition.”

“'Entrance tickets'? We goin' to arrange a circus, Pretty?” T-Bag said, snickering.

“Better,” Michael smiled, “Striptease.”


	2. Initiation

_“Better,” Michael smiled, “Striptease.”_

One could almost hear the dust gathering on the floor as five men gaped, open-mouthed, at the youngest of their party. Even T-Bag looked stunned.

Finally, Sucre broke the silence. “Striptease? What the hell are you saying, Papi?”

“Michael, girls like that don't share their income; they don't need pimps,” Lincoln said, staring at his brother. “You know that.”

Michael smiled at his brother, the corner of his lips barely lifting. “I know that. We won't be hiring. We'll be working.”

Silence reigned for three heartbeats. Then...

“Hell, you almost had me there, Fish!” Abruzzi's laughter echoed off the empty walls in the warehouse. C-Note joined him and slapped Michael on the shoulder. “Yeah, smart guy, almost.” Sucre and Lincoln were grinning, looking expectantly at Michael as if waiting for him to confirm the joke.

T-Bag, on the other hand, simply looked from the laughing men around him to Michael right in front of him. “Tell me more, Pretty,” he commanded, slowly licking a drop of beer from his bottle as it ran down the side.

“Come on, _Teddy_ ,” Abruzzi rasped, the name almost an insult in itself. “The kid wasn't being serious. They do teach you the definition of a joke in Alabama, right?”

“T-Bag's right,” Michael finally said, “I'm being dead serious. I know how to get money. Striptease.”

As the other men opened their mouths to argue, Michael overrode them: “Just shut up and listen. I'm going to explain everything. Just sit down, drink your beers and shut up.

“There's only one half-decent bar in this town; the one a bit off the main street. It's adults only, they have a stage, and performers can book the whole thing. Sell tickets. I talked to the bar owner; if the crowd gets bigger than fifty, the performers get half the ticket income. Plus tips.

“Think about it – one hundred tickets, selling at ten bucks each. That's five hundred dollars for us, and again, there's the tip. We could get more people in there; this could mean big money!”

The others were gaping again. Michael sighed and ran a hand through his rapidly returning hair. “Look, I thought this through. We can't steal the money, we're not eligible for any kind of 'decent' work – we don't even have bank accounts any more – and we simply can't go for the Cooper money yet. This is as good an option as any.”

“Like hell it is, Papi!” Sucre said. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I sure as hell won't sacrifice my dignity to make a prison rendition of _Chippendale_! Man, I'd rather go back to Bellick!”

Heated outbursts of agreement followed closely after Sucre closed his mouth. C-Note and Lincoln both loudly stated that, “I'm no faggot!” while Abruzzi started laughing again.

“You see, Fish,” the mobster said, “even if we agreed, this ain't gonna work. Women – or queers – paying to see shit like that expect something worth watching. Do you see anyone in here – except maybe yourself, judging by Sergeant Sodomy over there – who'd make the front page of _Gay Times_? I sure know I wouldn't pay a single dime to see me in a thong, or whatever these fruits wear. Hell, if we even see ten customers in there, I'll go up on that stage and give them a full frontal, myself!”

Bellows of laughter applauded Abruzzi's statement. Michael couldn't help but smile himself.

“This has nothing to do with being gay, John. It's all about survival and money. What's the worst that's going to happen; a man giving you his phone number? A woman trying to put a dollar bill in your – well, whatever you'll be wearing? It doesn't have to be a thong.”

“Michael, listen to me,” Lincoln said. “Are you serious? 'Cause if you are, then I'm worried about you. What the hell are you thinking? Striptease? Do you even know what you're asking us to do here?”

Michael nodded. “I do. I'm asking you to do it, and I'm going to do it myself. I've taken care of all the arrangements; all you have to do is help me out with the costumes and learn the routine. Come on. Can any one of you think of a better solution or a good reason not to go on that stage? Except from pride and dignity; that's no excuse.”

Again there was silence. Sucre started picking on the tattered blanket covering his cot, C-Note just looked disgusted. Abruzzi was shaking his head and Lincoln was staring into Michael's eyes. Only T-Bag looked around, incredulous.

“And here I was, thinkin' y'all had at least some resemblance of balls,” the murderer said, smirking. “Count me in, Pretty. I didn't survive Fox River and go all the way down here to starve to death. This is easy cash; I'll work for mine.”

The last sentence was added with a leer in Michael's direction. Michael decided he did not want to know what was crossing T-Bag's mind at that moment, and so refocused his attention to the others.

“Well? T-Bag is in, what about the rest of you?”

No one replied. Finally, after what seemed like aeons, Lincoln sighed gustily. “Hell, Michael, I know I owe you, but after I do this, you'll owe me for the rest of your life.”


	3. Rearrangements

“No, no, no! John, you and Lincoln step up here, next to each other, and then go – no, not right, go left, go –”

Crashing into Abruzzi, Sucre and C-Note stumbled to the floor, pulling Lincoln with them. T-Bag stood off to one side, laughing, while Abruzzi looked around in confusion. “What's that, Fish?”

Michael groaned in frustration. “This isn't working out. We have to do something. We've been working on this routine for two days and we still can't get the turns right.”

“Well, I don't know 'bout you, Pretty, but I don't feel like lettin' this bunch of amateurs ruin our show,” T-Bag said casually, strolling over to Michael's cot and plopping himself down on it. All the cots and empty crates had been placed along the walls, leaving a large open space in the middle of the room.

“Shut the fuck up, ass man,” C-Note snarled, picking himself up off the floor. “I don't see you dancing like a ballerina.”

“Well, that's 'cause I ain't tall enough to be a ballerina,” T-Bag said, grinning. “But at least I got the rhythm nailed. You're mighty disappointin' to the stereotype – you don't sing, you don't dance... 'S there any Negro activity you _can_ do?”

“Yeah,” C-Note yelled, “Kicking your ass!”

“Guys!” Michael shouted, “Easy! Focus on the show, okay? I'm just saying, this isn't working. We have to do something. I say we split up. Do solo performances. We'll have that stage all night from ten pm until the last customer leaves; we'll have plenty of time to fill.”

“Hell no, Papi,” Sucre argued, “If I go down, someone goes down with me. I ain't sitting duck alone.”

Michael sighed. “Fine. Who wants to go solo?” C-Note and T-Bag raised a hand. “And who wants to do it together?” Lincoln, Abruzzi and Sucre.

“Then this is the new plan. T-Bag, C-Note and I make our own routines. You three...” he pointed to his brother, his former cellie and the mobster, “... cooperate as a trio. You make a new routine; something that works for you. Everyone figure out what music they'll be needing, and what kind of costume. We'll have a brainstorming tonight. We have to have those details planned out before tomorrow. I'll go shopping for props and all that.”

With that, he returned to his cot.

“You got the choreography and everythin' worked out, Pretty?” T-Bag asked as Michael sat down. He was still sitting on the younger man's cot, but he made no move to get up.

“Nope,” said Michael, “but I've got a fairly good idea about what concept I'm running with.”

“By the way, whatcha goin' to do 'bout that tattoo o' yours? Kinda easy to recognize, you know.”

“Skin bleacher. In some countries in Asia, being fair is still fashionable. The women in particular work hard to stay as pale as possible. Some rub their skin with powerful chemicals that damage the pigments. It's possible to buy that stuff here, too; they've started importing it. The local drug store has one of the more dodgy brands. What's still visible after two weeks, I'll just have to do my best to cover up with make-up.”

T-Bag looked impressed. “Looks like you thought this through real thorough, Pretty. But won't that stuff ruin all that nice skin o' yours, too? That'd be a real shame.”

Michael smiled humourlessly. “I ruined my life, survived Fox Rivers and brought six men out of it to save my brother's life. Pale skin is not going to stop me from keeping us all alive.”

***

“Okay, who's first?”

No one answered. Lincoln, Abruzzi and Sucre looked at each other, T-Bag licked his lips and let his gaze flicker around the group, and C-Note just stared at the floor.

“Fine,” Michael sighed, “I'll go first. I'll be using Pink Floyd's _We don't need no education_ and a school uniform costume. I'll also be using the pole.”

He glanced around, looking for reactions. T-Bag was grinning so widely it was a wonder his face still stuck together. C-Note looked sceptical, and his brother stared at him in shock.

“College boy, right?” Michael asked, “That's what you used to call me in Fox River. It's a good concept, really.”

“Pole?” Lincoln asked, his voice much thinner than usual.

Michael nodded. “I need to polish my technique a bit, but I think it'll be a good show when I'm done.”

“I can help you polish your technique with the _pole_ , Pretty.”

“Shut up, Bagwell. No one wants to hear that,” Abruzzi snarled, looking disgusted.

“When the hell did you learn to dance with a pole, Michael?” Lincoln insisted.

“It's not something you learn, it's something you try and then figure out. I got it right. About five years ago or something; there was a clothes line on the... It's not important; let's continue.” Michael cleared his throat. “C-Note?”

C-Note, never raising his eyes off the floor, muttered something unintelligible.

“What's that, blackjack?” an Alabamian drawl inquired.

“I said lap dancing!” C-Note angrily replied. “Tips, right? I'll need, I don't know, _Mr. Boombastic_ or something. I'm not going on no stage, man.”

“Good,” Michael said, “Then we don't need an extensive costume for you. You can move, right?”

“What the hell do you take me for? Just relax, I'll show you how a brother can raise money.”

“Okay, I trust you. Next. T-Bag? What have you got?”

“I'll be needin' a chair and a kinda special song. _Old fashioned morphine_. My routine's a surprise, Pretty; wouldn't wanna spoil it, would ya?”

“You can run around with a rubber chicken on your head for all I care, as long as it brings in some cash. What do you need for a costume?”

The murderer thought for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. Finally, he said, “Black jeans, white tee, black leather or denim jacket. Won't be needin' anythin' underneath, eh?”

Michael shook his head. “Not if you're planning to give them the full package. Right, I can fix that costume. Next?”

Sucre, Lincoln and Abruzzi exchanged looks, then started studying their finger nails or picking at lint on the blankets. Michael sighed. “You haven't come up with anything, have you?”

“It ain't that easy, Fish,” Abruzzi said, “it's not like we've been doing this before.”

“Well, then I guess we'll just have to help you,” Michael said, something akin to a grin on his face. “What kind of theme do you want?”

The three men with no plan looked at each other, then shrugged. Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck with one big hand. “We have to have a theme?”

“Well, it will be easier to come up with music, routine and costumes that way. One word that describes you?” Michael suggested, hoping to give them some ideas.

“Fucked up?”

“No dignity left?”

“Dumb-asses?”

“More like prison trash bad-asses,” T-Bag taunted.

“That's it!” Michael exclaimed, “Bad boys! That'll be the concept for our whole show; it's sleazy and intriguing enough to draw customers and true enough to make the acting easier. How about the three of you do a number to match it?”

“Bad boys?” Lincoln asked, incredulous. “What the hell, Michael?”

But Michael was already planning. “Yes, bad boys. All in black, collars and leather and stuff, and... I think I've got it. Give me ten minutes.” Then he grabbed his notepad and started scribbling furiously again.

Sucre muttered something in Spanish, then, “I just know I ain't gonna like this.”


	4. Costumes

“Fish, if you think for a second that I'm going to wear that, I'll smash your fucking face in. You said striptease, not fucking Village People!”

Abruzzi stared at his costume in horrified disgust. T-Bag was howling with laughter, Lincoln was staring at his own costume in disbelief, and the two others were snickering at the mobster's expression.

Michael tried his best to suppress a grin. “It's a part of the concept, John. Sucre, Lincoln, show him yours; they all match.”

Sucre abruptly stopped snickering. Apprehensively, he approached Michael who was holding out a white shopping bag. Looking quickly inside, Sucre muttered, “Well, at least it's all black...” Lincoln just shook his head.

“Oh come on. You're not telling me you don't have the guts to even wear the costumes here, with no one else here but us? Put them on – now,” Michael commanded, glaring at the three men just standing there, looking at each other.

Sighing and cursing under their breath, Abruzzi, Lincoln and Sucre started undressing. Michael turned back to the shopping bags. “Right, C-Note. If you're doing lap dances, then you'll need to show as much skin as possible while still covering up... the most important bits. Tiger stripes okay with you?”

The former army officer looked about to empty his stomach. “Tiger stripes? Like hell they are, Fish!”

“Well, it was tiger stripes or leopard spots. I can change it,” Michael grinned, knowing full well C-Note would not want to change it.

“What the hell have you gotten me, anyway?” C-Note asked, looking suspiciously at Michael as though he was trying to stab a shank through his throat.

Michael didn't reply, but instead reached inside the bag and offered up a...

“A fucking fur towel?” C-Note yelled, taking half a step back. All the others looked at him, then at Michael, then at the thing he was holding.

“It's not a fur towel,” Michael said irritably, “It's a loincloth. Fake tiger fur. Come on, take it; I've got my own costume to fix.”

Swearing loudly, C-Note grabbed his costume roughly and started tearing angrily at his clothing. “Easy cash my ass!”

T-Bag was barely standing, he was laughing so hard. Michael was almost tempted to join him; the whole scene was comical. But he figured it would be safer not to. Instead, he turned to the Alabamian and threw him the last bag. “Most of what you need. I couldn't find a furniture store; we'll have to get the chair later.”

T-Bag, still grinning like mad, started calmly undressing. Michael turned back to his own costume and started putting it on. He'd been standing around in his boxers since Abruzzi started protesting on his costume, and he didn't like to feel T-Bag's eyes on him.

“Ooh, John Boy, aren't you a sight for gods!” More laughter. Then an angry, “Shut the fuck up, Bagwell, or I'll tear your fucking –”

Sighing, Michael turned around, his arms trapped in the vest he was trying to wrestle over his head. The sight that met him made him break out in laughter.

Lincoln was repeatedly spinning around himself, trying to get a good look down his back in the floor-length black coat he was wearing. The fake leather was creaking as he flexed his shoulders. Underneath he wore only snug pants of the same material, and the image was one of a confused, semi-dressed metal band singer chasing his tail.

Sucre was yanking and pulling at his very tight, black trousers; apparently _very_ uncomfortable with how they stuck to his skin as if painted on. The black sixpence, the only other piece of clothing Michael had gotten him, was sitting perfectly askew on his head; nearly masking the blush on one side of the Puerto Rican's face.

C-Note stood, arms crossed as if trying to cover most of himself, wearing only the tiger striped loincloth and looking as though he'd gut the next man who spoke to him, with his bare teeth.

Abruzzi had one hand around T-Bag's throat, the other drawn back in preparation to punch, and had the smaller man shoved up against the wall. T-Bag was struggling to breathe, but his gasps were of laughter and not of oxygen shortage. His black jeans were a snug fit, but they fit, and the tee-shirt was just as tight. He had, apparently, not had the time to don the jacket; it was still lying on the floor.

Michael looked at Abruzzi, and the source of T-Bag's laughter was evident. Baggy, black trousers went well with the rough build of the mobster, his now shoulder-length hair tied back in an elastic. But as with Sucre, Michael had only gotten him one more item – a black leather collar with nearly two inch spikes. He looked like a poster for eccentric fetishes.

“Knock it off, guys,” Michael said, desperately trying to keep a straight face. “We can't have any bruises. Hey – I said knock it off!”

Abruzzi finally let go of T-Bag, throwing him to the floor with a snarl. T-Bag sat up, glanced around, then grinned. “I sure look forward to seein' y'all on stage, boys.”

“Fish, why does Sink get a coat?”

“Because you'd look ridiculous in it, John. I'm sorry, but you would. Besides, it's not like you'll be keeping those clothes on anyway. It's striptease, remember? You're supposed to take things off.” Reaching into his bag, Michael pulled out a 3-pack of boxers. “You can keep these on if you like, though.”

The boxers were black with small silver skulls on them. Lincoln took one look at his and laughed. “Michael, aren't these...”

“Just like the ones Veronica got us,” Michael grinned, “I couldn't help it.”

“Do I want to know why his chick got you the same boxers, Papi?” Sucre asked, sounding dubious. He was still tugging on his trousers.

“If you find out, please tell me,” Michael replied. “I still haven't figured it out.”

Lincoln started blushing, tucked the boxers in the pocket of his coat and suddenly looked everywhere but at Michael.

“Hey, I think Big Brother here knows somethin' we'd all like to hear,” T-Bag said, leering. All attention suddenly focused on Lincoln, whose blush increased violently, contrasting marvellously with the shiny black material of his coat.

“Lincoln?” Michael asked, a grin forming on his lips. “You told me you didn't know!”

Lincoln glared at T-Bag. “Trust me, Michael, you don't need to hear this. _Especially_ not in front of this audience,” he tossed his head in the general direction of the murderer.

But Michael wanted to know. “Tell me, or I'll rearrange the show so you'll be going solo with nothing on you but pink ribbons.”

Everyone else were forgotten; there were just two brothers in a childish battle of wills.

“Yeah right, Mike. Make me.”

Michael arched an eyebrow. “You know I could. Who made you wear a dress on New Year's back when – ”

“Okay, okay! Fine; scar yourself for life,” Lincoln said exasperatedly. “It was just an inside joke. Vee and I were having a private party, and we played ´Truth or dare` with a bottle of vodka, and she asked me, if I had to choose, which guy would I have chosen for a threesome with her. She wanted to know so she could imagine us together in matching underwear in her bedroom.”

The other men in the room all started roaring with laughter. Sucre slapped Lincoln on the back and laughed, “Sink, I knew you were kinda messed up, but your _brother_?”

“I was 23 and drunk!” Lincoln defended, his cheeks glowing like Christmas lights. “Veronica was trying to fucking brainwash me!”

By now, Michael was blushing as hard as his brother. Both Abruzzi and C-Note seemed to have momentarily forgotten their own discomfort, their bellows of laughter making the two brothers even more embarrassed.

Only T-Bag seemed to be interested in further details. “Why don't you provide us with a little... entertainment, then? Come on, baby, show Big Brother how nice it is to be out of jail.”

At that, Lincoln launched at the murderer, wrestling him to the floor and grabbing his head as if about to smash it to pieces against the rough floor boards. Michael threw himself on top of his brother, trying to make him release the other man – “Linc, we need him for the show!” – and by the time they were all calmed down, Michael was lying across Lincoln, who was lying across T-Bag, who was having severe troubles breathing.

“Get off me!” T-Bag wheezed, clearly struggling to draw breath.

Michael got to his feet somewhat unsteadily, then dragged Lincoln up off the Alabamian and started trying to get the coat off his brother.

“Lincoln, you've almost torn it! You can't heave around like this on stage, at least not until they've taken it off.”

“They?” three men exclaimed at once.

“Who else will be on that stage with us, Fish?” Abruzzi demanded.

“No one. It's part of the routine. I thought it through while I was looking for outfits.”

“Just one thing that bothers me, Pretty,” T-Bag suddenly said. “You said we were short on cash. Where did all this come from, then?”

“Some of it had to come out of our food budget. But I sold my gold watch,” Michael easily replied.

“But Papi, you used that watch for –”

“Yes, I did. But the guy who bought it didn't know that, did he?”


	5. Rehearsal

_We don't need no education  
We don't need no thought control  
No dark sarcasm in the classroom  
Teacher, leave them kids alone*_

Aggressive, pulsating rhythms blended softly with a masculine voice, electric guitars and a heavy bass, sounding from a small, cheap CD player in the dark. It was close to midnight, and five men were sitting around in the moist grass, watching – with varying degrees of respect painted on their faces – a sixth man in nothing but white, clingy boxer shorts.

This sixth man was dancing, sliding, moving around like a cat in the light of the half moon; the iron pole cold as ice against his skin as he slid down along it. He was bending, twisting, arching; his tattooed skin stretching over flexing muscle and sinew.

As the music started fading, voices and noise overtaking the instruments and rhythms, the man dancing in the moonlight let himself slide to the ground, striking an almost casual pose, though provoking enough to ooze sexual innuendo. He sat silently for a moment, as if regaining his breath, then stood up and turned to the sitting men.

“How was that?”

Nobody said anything for a while. The man in the boxers started looking nervous, then went for a pile of clothing lying close to one of the watching men. “Well?” he said, “Give me some feedback!”

“Damn, Papi. Where the hell did you learn to move like that?”

“Michael, that was... yeah, where?”

Relaxing again, Michael sat down, now clothed. “You don't learn it. At least I didn't. Either you know how to do it or you don't.” A pause. “You still haven't said if it's any good or not?”

“Fish, if that doesn't make the queers pay up, then nothing will. Don't suppose there's any possibility of you teaching us that?” Abruzzi said, barking a laugh.

Michael looked pleased. “Well, then at least I know what to do when the big night comes. Err, yeah. C-Note, you ready?”

The man in question looked like he'd rather be frisked by Bellick personally back in Fox River, but he still stood up and looked uncertainly around. “Ain't no women here to dance for.”

“Sure there is; Bagwell's certainly all confused about who's supposed to do what in bed; he might as well be a chick,” Abruzzi said, harvesting snickers all around the group.

“Well, at least I know how to do my part – both givin' and takin',” T-Bag said, then added, “How ever did you manage to hold on to both your wife and a mistress, John Boy, if you can't even satisfy a man?”

“Well, just pretend there are women, C-Note. It's not like we won't be seeing you when you perform, anyway,” Michael pressed, switching CDs and pressing ´Play`.

_Mr. Boombastic!  
What you want is some boombastic, romantic, fantastic luvah!  
Shaggy!  
Mr. Luvah-luvah, mmm, Mr. Luvah-luvah, hello there lil' girl...**_

Loosening his shoulders and shedding his tee-shirt, the dark man stood before the others in nothing but a loincloth. He tapped his foot against the ground a few times, feeling the rhythm, then started moving his hips in time to the music. He closed his eyes, apparently to focus, then let his whole body fall into the movement.

T-Bag gave a whistle, then called, “You can dance, blackjack. Now sing us a song too!”

C-Note opened his eyes and glared at the man reclining casually in the grass. “Shut your mouth, trailer trash, or I'll do it!”

“Easy, both of you!” Michael said sharply. “C-Note, you can't afford to let yourself be distracted. You've got this, right?”

“Yeah, I've got this, I told you I can move, Fish,” C-Note snapped. “I just can't do this here.”

“Get him a girl, Mike.”

“What the hell you talking about, Sink?”

“You need a woman to practice, right? Sucre speaks Spanish; he can talk to a woman from around here and get her to let C-Note dance for her, just once. Afterwards she tells us if he's any good or not. 'Course, we might have to get her drunk first,” Lincoln added with a grin.

“Fine. Get a chick up here, and give me four minutes alone with her – that's how long the song lasts, right?”

“Done. Okay, who'll go next?”

“I will, Pretty,” T-Bag drawled, rising and grabbing a folding chair lying next to him. “Someone's gotta try and match up to your lil' show earlier. Though I doubt anyone can...” Giving Michael a saucy wink, he snapped his fingers and cracked his neck to one side.

“Hit me with the music,” the Alabamian commanded, setting the chair down in the middle of the open space they used for an improvisatory stage. He walked a bit off to the side, probably to where one would be out of view from the audience.

Michael pressed ´Play`, and sultry jazz music started filling the night. As a woman started singing - _Gimme that old fashioned morphine, gimme that old fashioned morphine...***_ – T-Bag started strolling out towards the chair, his sauntering gait falling in with the music easily.

Reaching the chair, he circled it a few times, then slung one leg over it, placing the back of the chair between his well spread legs as he sat down. He leaned backwards, letting his jacket slide to the ground in the process and bending his body in a perfect arch from the seat of the chair to his hands, almost but not quite touching the ground.

He continued moving on the chair, then got up to walk, almost snake-like, over to where the ´audience` sat. Stopping at the very edge of the stage area, he slowly pulled his tee-shirt over his head, always moving his hips in time with the music. He threw the shirt to Michael, giving him a nasty grin, then stepped slowly over to where Abruzzi sat, letting his tongue twist and dart over his lips as he went.

Abruzzi stared in horror as the murderer slowly undid his belt right in front of him, then whipped the leather strap down, the snap resounding in the quiet night air. T-Bag leaned down to whisper something in Abruzzi's ear; something none of the others could hear. The mobster looked livid, but before he could react, T-Bag turned around and went back to the chair.

Before the song was over, T-Bag had Abruzzi looking ready to explode, Lincoln like he was about to go to drastic measures to keep him away from Michael, and Michael, well...

There was no denying it; T-Bag knew how to do striptease. The sensual music, the ease with which the murderer moved, the way he made even the chair a sexy part of his act; Michael would be highly surprised if he hadn't done this before. And he kept eye contact with Michael all the time, even when he dropped his pants and proved to wear nothing underneath them. To see a man moving that sexily was highly distracting.

When the music faded, Sucre asked, “Man, you're fucking crazy. You seriously going to drop your pants?”

T-Bag smirked. “That is what they're payin' to see, ain't it? 'Sides, way I understood Pretty, you're loosing the trousers too.”

“Yeah, but I'll be wearing boxer shorts!”

“Well, I just happen to lack any issues where my physique is concerned. Them customers will be payin' to see skin, señorita, and that's what I'll give 'em.”

After a few moments of silence, Lincoln said, “So, they'll expect us to take off everything?”

“Well, they'll probably be hoping for it,” Michael said, somewhat uncertainly, “but it's not like it's a requirement. ... Is it?”

All six men glanced around at each other.

“Well, I'd tip a girl more if she took it all off,” Lincoln said, then frowned. “Should we do that? For the cash, I mean?”

A round of protests, then, “Voluntarily. If you think it'll pay off, take it off. If not, keep it on,” Michael concluded.

“Then why the hell aren't I fully dressed?” Abruzzi asked, grinning.

“Because, believe it or not, women are attracted to the bad guys, and they'll pay good money to see them without clothes on.”

“'Sides, John Boy, you've been gettin' a good workout every day since you landed behin' bars, haven't you? Nothin' there in need of hidin', right?”

Abruzzi snarled something unintelligible at T-Bag, who made a small purring growl and blew him a kiss. Three feet away Michael could hear the mobster's knuckles cracking into place as the older man tightened his fist.

“Okay, like the man said, if it pays off, take it off,” Sucre said, nodding. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group.

“Okay,” Michael sighed, “next. Lincoln, John, Sucre. Show us what you've got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Song lyrics used in this chapter:
> 
> * = We don't need no education _by Pink Floyd  
>  ** = _Mr. Boombastic _by Shaggy  
>  *** = _Old fashioned morphine _by Jolie Holland_  
> 
> 
> All lyrics and music are property of the respective artists; I'm just borrowing a few tidbits. 


	6. Rehearsal pt. II

The three men were standing around the stage-area; one to each side but for the one where the audience sat. Michael took the whole thing in. Across from him stood Lincoln. To his right stood Sucre, still tugging on his trousers occasionally and inclining his head slightly so the sixpence obscured the side of his head facing the audience. To his left stood Abruzzi, sneering and looking highly displeased. Michael grinned. It had to be the costume.

The music started, and the men loosened shoulders and necks, preparing to start.

_Your cruel device  
Your blood like ice  
One look could kill  
My pain, your thrill*_

As the deep, raspy voice of Alice Cooper filled the night, the men started walking slowly towards the middle of the stage. Michael watched each of them as they approached each other in a triangle, then, as the music escalated into the chorus, they all stopped for a heartbeat, striking poses of challenge.

Abruzzi moved first, stepping closer yet to the other two men before turning abruptly and starting to circle them. Then Lincoln followed, walking in the opposite direction, the two men forming a moving wall around Sucre, who stepped forward, breaking the circle, and let his gaze sweep over the three men now sitting in the grass.

The three men ´on stage` started walking in slow, measured formations; never colliding but circling each other like a pack of wolves; staring each other down. Michael felt mesmerized as they suddenly came together again, only to move forward towards the audience as one. Suddenly Lincoln, his coat flaring behind him, bent down and picked Michael up.

Michael found himself being lifted into the arms of his older brother, then allowed to slide somewhat unsteadily to his feet in the middle of the stage-area. There, the three men in black circled him, then Lincoln grabbed Abruzzi and made as if to throw him away. Abruzzi grabbed the front of Lincoln's coat and, as the younger man released his hold, aggressively ripped the coat from his shoulders. Sucre stepped up to Michael, taking his hand and guiding him to walk around the Puerto Rican once, before being grabbed by the shoulders from behind by Abruzzi.

The mobster held Sucre in a vice grip, turning his head to almost touch his nose to the smaller man's skin, while Lincoln, after sliding his hand down Sucre's chest, ripped once at the outside of each of his trouser legs. Black string pulled free, and the skin-tight black material fluttered to the ground.

Now wearing only his sixpence and boxers, Sucre looked somewhat uncomfortable, but the show went on. Michael found himself being slung over his former cellie's shoulder, then carried back to the audience and deposited on the grass.

Sucre returned to stage just in time to throw himself to his knees along Abruzzi's left leg, Lincoln mirroring him with the right leg. Clinging to the older man's legs, they looked up at him, smirking, and suddenly tore at the baggy trousers just as the word Poison split the night. The Velcro – which Michael had sewn in as he split open the seams – ripped open and the mobster was certainly just as bare as Sucre, though with a spiky collar instead of a sixpence.

Michael felt himself growing involuntarily intrigued by the sexual energy of the theatrical fight before him. The three men were aggressive, raw, primitive in their struggle as they seemingly bullied each other around, fighting over him (instead of the woman they would be fighting over in the bar) and reminding him of panthers fighting for a mate.

Lincoln suddenly grabbed Abruzzi, pressed down on his shoulder so the older man knelt before him, then grabbed his hair and held his head back. Michael watched his brother's mouth hover a mere inch away from the exposed skin on Abruzzi's throat while Sucre came up behind Lincoln and ran his hands down his broad back, fingers almost claws on his skin. Lincoln whirled about, grabbing Sucre by the throat, and Abruzzi took the opening to roughly hook his fingers under the waistband of Lincoln's trousers. The mobster pulled harshly and the black fabric gave way.

As soon as Lincoln was as exposed as the other two men on stage, the three of them all froze in position, the image that of Lincoln having ascertained his position as leader of the pack. The music was fading out and for a moment the three men didn't move. Then, as soon as they realized their number was over, they quickly released each other and stood up, looking everywhere but at their audience of three.

Silence again filled the night for a few heartbeats while the three performers hastily redressed.

“If I'd known you wanted a fourth for _that_ act, I sure wouldn'a voted for solos,” T-Bag finally said, licking his lips slowly. “How come Pretty's gettin' all the fun around here?”

“They won't be using me when they perform,” Michael said, his cheeks feeling a bit too heated considering he'd just watched his brother and two other men do what they'd just done. “They'll be picking out one of the women from the audience; hopefully one who pays well. They just needed to practice.”

“I didn't think we were your types, Bagwell,” Abruzzi said, looking not quite his usual, authoritative self. He was still wearing the collar, though he'd put trousers and a tee-shirt back on.

“You ain't usually, John Boy,” T-Bag drawled, shifting his gaze to Lincoln, “but what's a man to do; all that leather and aggression and skin contact... mmm-mmm!” The murderer was all but purring, and Michael couldn't help but agree with him. It _was_ enough to heat a man up, even if his brother was involved.

“Well, it was great, guys,” Michael said, clearing his throat. “You got all the moves right, no collisions. Good work. Now we'll all just have to keep practising, and in exactly one week, we go on stage.”

“You talked to the owner, right?” Lincoln asked.

“Yeah, everything is taken care of. Except... except one little detail. Sucre, I'll be needing your help with it.”

“What, Papi?”

“PR. We need to get a crowd; a big one. The bar makes money anyway, but if we want to earn anything, we have to get at least 51 customers in there. I got the owner to copy out fifty posters – he's really interested in hosting our show; we have to be careful around him or he'll rip us off – but we have to distribute them ourselves.”

“How does that have anything to do with me?” Sucre asked, confused.

“Those posters aren't enough. I need you to start a few rumours. Walk around town, ask a few people if they've heard about this or something. We need to get people talking,” Michael stressed.

“I can do that. Someone else do the posters, then?” his former cellie suggested.

“Sure. We'll figure it out. And C-Note's girl – we have to get her out here, too.”

“Consider it done, Papi,” Sucre yawned. “I don't know 'bout the rest of you, but I'm going to catch a few Z's.”

Everyone got up, grabbed their props and headed back towards ´headquarters`. It had turned out even the itchy cots felt like heaven after hard work in the dead of night, and Michael longed to get back to his.

They'd been arranging night-time practice sessions for a week now, using that old clothes-line rack (Michael's pole) and the approximately flat ground surrounding it for a stage. Up until now they'd been individual (or, in the trio's case, for three), each act getting half an hour with the CD player before passing it on. This was the first time each of the six men had seen the others' performances.

Michael suddenly realized he was walking besides T-Bag at the very back of the group. He felt somewhat exposed, but there was one thing that had been bothering him since he'd showed the others his own act. He decided asking could do no harm.

“You didn't really comment on my... dance,” he casually said, glancing at the murderer from the corner of his eye.

“Didn't I?”

“No. I was just thinking, since you commented on everyone else's...”

“That botherin' you, Pretty?”

Michael smiled sarcastically. “Well, seeing as you're always very verbal where my other... assets... are concerned, I'd say you not saying anything qualifies for caution.”

The Alabamian laughed. “You got me all figured out, don't you, Pretty. Well, I don't mind tellin' ya. When I saw you dancin' there, slidin' along that pole and everythin'... I just wanted to get up and take you hard right there, in front of Big Brother and Mr. Mafia and damn all to hell and back. But then I figured, with the ideas y'all got 'bout me, that wouldn'a been a smart move, eh, Pretty?”

Then he laughed again. Michael felt himself blush. “I don't think that would have been a very good idea, no,” he said, “especially seeing as we would be two short for our show.”

“Two?”

“Yes, two. You don't think you would have been allowed to live, do you, after you'd killed me? Your methods are no secret, T-Bag.”

“Oh, I would never kill you, you far to pretty for that,” the murderer drawled. “'Sides, I get off just as well without killin', I just like it a bit rough.”

Michael felt his pulse quicken. This much visual stimulation in one night did strange things to his self control, and he decided some cold water might be in order before he went to bed. A lot of cold water. A barrel full, if T-Bag was going to keep staring at him like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Song lyrics used in this chapter:
> 
> * = Poison _by Alice Cooper_  
> 
> 
> All lyrics and music are property of the respective artists; I'm just borrowing a few tidbits. 


	7. Provocation

“You know, tryin' to kill a man for givin' you a compliment is mighty rude of ya, John Boy,” T-Bag drawled, rubbing his throat with a remorseless grin on his face.

Abruzzi snarled at the smaller man, straining against Michael and Lincoln's grip on his shoulders. The two brothers held their ground, something that was a bit difficult considering the size and strength of the mobster.

Michael groaned in exasperation. “You two have got to stop behaving like wild animals at each others' throat! I know you don't like each other, but can you at least try to behave like grown men? T-Bag, you are going to stop annoying John, and John, you are going to stop letting yourself be annoyed!”

“Fish, there are some things I'll put up with, and there are some things I won't. What he's doing, I won't,” Abruzzi huffed, finally giving up and stepping back.

“Aw, come on now, don't give me that look, Pretty!” T-Bag complained as Michael turned his glare to the Alabamian. “I was only tryin' to give him some moral support, y'know, a lil' confidence booster!”

“I don't know what you're telling him, but it has to stop. We can't afford the two of you to bruise each other up; it might go with the bad boy image but it will look suspicious. I want each of you to promise me you won't touch each other. Insult each other as much as you want, I don't give a shit, but no physical damage!”

Abruzzi shrugged angrily. T-Bag cocked his head to one side, then smiled slowly. “Well, I promise I won't try an' hurt him,” the murderer muttered.

Michael nodded shortly. “Then that's a deal. Now keep it.”

Michael looked around the room. Sucre and C-Note were doing sit-ups and push-ups a bit off to one side. All six of them had devoted themselves to daily exercise ever since agreeing to the plan; they didn't mention it but everyone wanted to look as fit as possible.

Not that they had much to work away – they hadn't exactly fallen into decay since leaving Fox River. But there was a lot of nervous energy around, and working out was as good a way of disposing of that as any. T-Bag and Abruzzi didn't do it while others were around, but Michael had seen them both, returning to headquarters sweaty and tired. Never together, of course – they would never do anything as friendly as work out together – but they did it.

Turning to his brother, Michael said, “Help me out, Linc?”

“Sure.”

This, too, had become a daily exercise – Michael and Lincoln cooperating about rubbing the bleacher into Michael's tattooed skin, Michael doing the front and Lincoln the back. They had to repeat the procedure with moisturiser afterwards; the chemicals made his skin raw and sore. But it worked. The stark lines had slowly faded away, making the whole tattoo blurry and pale. Much of it was still discernible, but with time and enough make-up, hopefully it wouldn't be quite as recognizable.

“You need any help with that, Big Brother?” T-Bag asked, taking a seat on a random cot to watch. It made Michael feel a bit twisted; a paedophile murderer watching his brother rubbing moisturiser into his skin. It was obvious T-Bag liked it, by the way he licked his lips and smirked whenever Lincoln approached the small of Michael's back.

The fact that Michael liked it, too, was more disconcerting.

“Fuck off, perv,” Lincoln growled, deliberately stroking big hands over Michael's shoulders. Though this was obviously a protective gesture, it made T-Bag utter an appreciative noise and caused Michael to blush. That his brother doing this made him think things like that, it was just... wrong. So wrong. Wasn't it?

“Oh, come on, Sink, you can't be tellin' me you never once noticed what a good-lookin' man your brother is?” the murderer asked, leaning back on one elbow and spreading his legs provocatively. Michael looked away, but not before noticing the smouldering look T-Bag threw their way.

“There's a big difference between a – a casual observation and the things crossing your mind right now,” Lincoln said, his voice tight with self control and... something else?

“Sure, caveman. I'm just sayin', ain't nothin' wrong in havin' a little fun every now and again, and with a pretty boy like that... You sure you didn't include practical experimentation when you taught him about the birds and the bees, Big Brother?”

Lotion still on his hands, Lincoln launched at T-Bag, his face red with rage and embarrassment. Michael jumped up, but others got there ahead of him. Sucre held T-Bag down while C-Note tried to fend Lincoln off, struggling against the fury of a big brother scorned.

As Lincoln calmed down, Michael strode angrily over to T-Bag. “You know what, I've had it. You've been stepping on everyone's toes for days now, but that ends right now. Either you leave people alone, or we'll just have to do the show with five men instead of six. You got it?”

The Alabamian grinned nastily at him. “I don't think so, Pretty. You know as well as I do, you can't afford to lose me. You need me on that stage as much as I need the cash. Empty threats, Pretty, empty threats.”

“Then what will it take to make you quit being a pain in the ass?” Michael said, narrowing his eyes at the man reclining elegantly on the cot.

“I could tell ya, but then I'd have my guts ripped out before I could spell my name,” T-Bag chuckled.

“Alright, Bagwell. Outside.”

“Outside, John Boy? Whatcha gonna do to me there, kill me silently?”

“Nobody's going to get killed. You and I need to have a conversation. Now get your ass off the floor and outside,” the mobster barked, heading for the door. T-Bag got up, looking extremely dubious, and followed him outside.

***

Behind the corner of the big warehouse, John Abruzzi stood staring at the small man in front of him. Theodore ´T-Bag` Bagwell. This was not the first occasion on which John had wanted to put his hands around that scrawny throat and wring away.

“Fish is right,” he finally said, “you have been a bigger pain than usual these last few days. Now, while the others might think if they ignore it, it'll go away... I disagree. I think something is bothering you, Theodore.

“Now you know I don't really care. I don't give a shit if you're depressed or nervous or just plain bored. But I do care about staying alive long enough to go get Westmoreland's millions, and I do care about getting home to my family before I die. So I won't let your little mood swings,” he sneered at the idea of T-Bag suffering mood swings, “ruin this for all of us. Are we clear?”

Abruzzi realized he had advanced on the other man as he spoke, his last sentence ending in a hiss just an inch away from T-Bag's face.

“Crystal,” the murderer drawled, holding his place. For a moment they both stared at each other, neither man willing to back down. Until T-Bag did the impossible. He surprised Abruzzi.

Moving half a step closer to the taller man, T-Bag suddenly pressed their lips together, grabbing Abruzzi's sweater with one hand. The mobster hardly had the time to react before he and T-Bag were pressed together, the murderer's tongue against his lips, their hands fisting each others' clothing as one tried to press closer and another tried to shove away.

Abruzzi won.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he yelled, looking at the Alabamian in disgust.

T-Bag merely smiled sarcastically at him and slowly licked his lips. “You shouldn't lead a man into temptation, John, being a religious man and everythin'. Ain't my fault y'all insist on teasin' me like that; Pretty and his brother and that whole act o' yours... Not like I've gotten much tail since lil' Cherry went an' snapped his neck, and that's a long time ago. You wonderin' why I'm bein' a pain, John? Some of us just happen to have blood and not sacramental wine flowin' through our veins.”

There was a stretching moment of silence. Then Abruzzi roughly grabbed the other man's shirt with both hands, yanked him close, and hissed, “If you ever do that again I'll fucking kill you.” Throwing a dishevelled T-Bag to the ground, Abruzzi wiped his mouth and left.

On the ground, breath heaving, T-Bag groaned and let himself fall back against the wall of their headquarters. Why did treatment like that have to turn him on?


	8. Brotherly Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brothercest ahoy! Also, one of the very first gay sex scenes I wrote. Hence the awkwardness. But still, I hope you'll like it :)

“You're worried again.”

Michael gave a start, but relaxed as soon as he recognized the voice of the man standing right behind him.

“When did you learn to move that silently?” Michael said, smiling.

“I didn't. You were just too preoccupied to notice me.”

Lincoln sat down next to Michael in the tall grass. From their vantage point on a small hill, they could see the warehouse below them, on the very outskirts of the town. Lincoln could see a man leaving headquarters – Sucre, going to get C-Note's girl. He had talked to her earlier, arranged everything. The whole plan was running smoothly without a hitch. Just three days left, now.

“What's on your mind?” Lincoln asked, propping his elbows on his knees.

“Nothing new, really. The show. Money. The future,” Michael answered, looking at the straw in his hands.

“Well, I don't know much about the rest of it, but you'll do real good at the show. I mean, your routine and everything, it's... Well, it's perfect,” Lincoln concluded, not knowing why he didn't look at his brother as he said that.

Michael smiled, his shoulders relaxing just a bit. “Thanks. It means a lot to me, that you... that you like it.”

The moment he'd said it, he regretted it. Clamping his stupid mouth shut, Michael averted his gaze from his brother's and felt heat suffuse his cheeks. He _hated_ blushing!

“I mean, not that... Of course, since yours is the only opinion here that matters, I kinda... Oh, just shut up,” he said sulkily as Lincoln started laughing heartily.

“Mikey's got a crush on his brother,” Lincoln joked, jabbing Michael's side with his elbow. Realizing how absurd that sounded, Michael started laughing too and smacked Lincoln's shoulder. Lincoln retaliated, and suddenly they were wrestling around in the grass, laughing and fighting just like they had when they were boys.

Lincoln won, of course. He always did. Pushing Michael to his back on the ground, he sat down astride him and started tickling his face with a straw.

“Beg for mercy!” Lincoln demanded, holding Michael's arms down above his head with one hand while trying to insert the straw into his ear with the other.

“Okay, okay! I give up! I give up! Stop it, I give up!”

Still grinning, Lincoln threw the straw away. Michael lay panting beneath him. Lincoln looked down at his brother, and was suddenly struck by the insane urge to kiss those full, red, slightly open lips. Meeting Michael's gaze, he leaned down and brushed his lips over his brother's, a mere ghost of a touch but full of affection.

Michael's eyes snapped open. Lincoln, suddenly realizing what, exactly, he was doing, released the younger man's arms as if burnt and started moving away. Michael, however, slung an arm up, grabbed a firm hold of Lincoln's sturdy neck, and pulled him back down.

Their lips met again, and Michael pushed hungrily against his brother, opening his mouth in invitation. Lincoln, perplexed by the intensity of the assault, closed his eyes and roughly shoved his tongue into Michael's mouth, tasting his brother for the first time.

Tongues wrestled like men had moments before. The kiss was intense, wet, needy; Michael arched up to press against his brother and Lincoln grabbed Michael's waist as if letting go would mean death. Blood raced and heat grew, moans vibrated in the hot afternoon air, hands started roaming over previously forbidden territory.

Breaking the kiss for air, Michael opened his eyes to look up at his brother. Lincoln was looking at him, lust burning in his eyes, and before Michael could even kiss him again, the older man was nipping and kissing at his throat and tugging at his shirt.

Michael lost all sense of when and where, right or wrong. All he knew was that he needed to feel Lincoln, needed to get rid of the clothes between them and anything that separated him from his brother. Whimpering as Lincoln rubbed against his leg, Michael started tearing at shirts and trousers, attacking every piece of fabric within reach.

Skin. All Michael could feel, was skin. Lincoln was lying naked on top of him, kissing him again, his hand sliding so slowly down Michael's torso. When that hand closed around him, Michael cried out in pleasure and thrust into his brother's hand. Lincoln growled against his lips and started kissing down the younger man's throat.

“Oh God, Lincoln... I want... Please,” was all Michael could moan as his brother worked his hand up and down, that incredibly big hand making jolts of electricity shoot through his body with each stroke. Lincoln groaned as Michael's hand found his own erection, starting to mimic his own movements.

“Oh baby, yeah, come on,” Lincoln rambled, lowering his lips towards Michael's once more. His brother gasped against him, tightened his grip almost painfully, then let Lincoln swallow his cries of ecstasy as he jerked and came over the older man's hand, mouths still devouring each other.

“God, Lincoln,” Michael finally gasped, trying to resume his strokes on Lincoln. “So good... Want to...”

What Michael wanted was never said. Lincoln removed his brother's hand from his cock, then spread Michael's legs wide with his knee. “I want to feel you around me,” Lincoln whispered in Michael's ear before lowering his mouth to his left nipple. Laving it with his tongue, Lincoln started coating himself with his precome, then moved his hand to Michael's body, slowly caressing his way towards where he wanted to bury his cock.

“Linc, oh God yes, I want you inside me,” Michael whimpered, tensing as his brother started preparing him with his own come but relaxing as he inserted a finger into him.

“Michael...” Lincoln whispered as he started pushing against his brother, barely restricting himself to go slowly. He wanted so badly to just ram into Michael, feel tightness surround him, but he didn't. Michael was moaning and thrashing his head from side to side, his body at once struggling against the intrusion and welcoming it.

Once fully inside, Lincoln paused, looking down at his brother again. Michael smiled, then pulled his head down to kiss him. “Take me, Lincoln,” he whispered against his brother's lips. Lincoln groaned and started thrusting, his eyes trying to take in the beautiful sight of his brother in the throes of passion but slipping closed with the pleasure of feeling Michael around him.

“Linc!” Michael suddenly cried, his body tensing. Lincoln stopped, but Michael bucked against him, begging him wordlessly to move. “So good, right there, so... oh God yes,” Michael gasped as Lincoln hit just that spot again. The older brother exhaled heavily and resumed his thrusts.

Harder, faster, begged Michael, and Lincoln complied. Soon they were racing towards the finish line, Michael clutching at Lincoln's broad shoulders and Lincoln biting down at the side of Michael's throat to keep from roaring as he came inside his brother. When he felt the rush of heat inside him, Michael tipped his head back and came from knowing his brother had just spent himself inside him.

Breath heaving, Lincoln pulled out of his brother and laid down in the grass beside him. Michael drew a shaking breath and rolled over on his side, facing Lincoln.

“I love you,” Lincoln said, not really caring whether it sounded stupid or wrong. It was true.

“I love you, too,” Michael replied, smiling. A slight pause, then, “We're really fucked up, you know that?”

“I know,” Lincoln said, grinning, “but I don't really care right now. ... Do you?”

Michael laughed and moved closer, feeling the heat of his brother. “Not really, no.”

They laid in silence for a few moments, just looking at each other, breathing.

“So what happens next?” Michael suddenly asked, blue eyes locking with dark brown ones.

“I don't know. Do we have to plan anything?”

“No. Just promise me this won't get weird.”

“It won't. We're brothers, and I love you, and that's really all I care about. What happens, happens. We'll just have to deal with it,” Lincoln said, for the first time in at least ten years feeling like the older brother.

A comfortable silence, then...

“But we'll keep the others out of it, right?”

Lincoln laughed. “If you mean as in keeping this a secret, yeah. Like hell I'd give T-Bag the satisfaction of being right. If you mean as in getting involved in any way, then... well, it's your choice.”

Michael stared at his brother in shock. “Involved? You mean, sexually?”

Lincoln rolled his eyes. “No, Michael, I mean environmentally. Of course I mean sexually! If you want to, then... All I'm saying is, we're not...” He sighed. “Look, Michael, this is something I did because I love you, okay? It's not, like, a relationship or anything. This doesn't have to be anything complicated.”

Michael grinned. “You mean like fuck buddies?”

Lincoln flinched. “Fuck what?”

“We're just two brothers with a fucking good relationship,” the younger brother laughed, then sat slowly up. “Honest, Lincoln, that's just fine with me. But I just can't see myself running off to do this with any of the other guys.”

“Who says it has to be this?” Lincoln asked, grinning, “Nothing wrong with a good, healthy blow job or two.”

Michael gaped at his brother, then, tacking on to the joke, started laughing. They sat there for a while, just laughing. Then they got up, dressed, and returned to headquarters in companionable silence.


	9. Dress rehearsal and sacrament

“Well? How was he?”

Michael was impatient. The local girl had just left their open air stage area after getting C-Note's lap dance, and had spent about five minutes after that talking to Sucre. The girl was pretty; big dark eyes and long black hair, hourglass shape. She and Sucre had been talking in Spanish, so naturally, Michael didn't understand anything. But there had been smiles and laughter and a lot of eyelash-fluttering (on her part, that was), so that was probably at least one customer right there.

“She said he's fine, Papi. He was all nervous and stuff in the beginning, but once he got the hang of it, it was good stuff. 'Least that's what she said. And she wanted to know who else was going to perform, so I told her you and me and a couple other guys, and she said she was bringing a few friends to go see us. Good, eh?”

Michael smiled, relieved. “Good. Then everything is ready. Three days left. Now all we've got to do is keep working out, rehearsing and staying alive. Day after tomorrow is dress rehearsal,” he told his former cellie.

“Dress rehearsal?” Sucre repeated, “Why?”

“We need to make sure everyone knows their bit well enough to do it even with all the stress,” Michael explained, “We can't afford to do a lousy show. People have to believe we've done this before; our cover is blown the second someone sees we're just a bunch of amateurs in need of cash.”

Sucre sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, then I guess I better stop getting all embarrassed about your brother stripping me while Mafia Man is feeling me up.”

***

Dress rehearsal came off nearly without problems. Nerves and uncertainty ran high, but despite the movements in some cases being a bit mechanic, everything went as planned. Michael was relieved, to say the least.

After the last act – the Black Trio, as they had been dubbed by the other three – Michael stood up and looked around the group. Time for a pep talk.

“You've done a great job. All of you. Everything is ready for tomorrow; just one day left and we'll be on our way with all the cash we need. I could say I'm proud of you, but...” He trailed off, grinning at the others. T-Bag sniggered, but the other sent him looks that clearly said, _Say it and I'll rip your heart out!_

“Only one thing remains,” Michael continued, “your confidence. You all have good routines, you all know how to move now. You have to remember that. We have to look professional and you have to act professional about it. This is acting; nothing else. Try to... loosen up a bit, okay?”

The other men glanced around at each other. Michael knew this wouldn't be easy when he started planning it two weeks ago, but they'd come too far now. Past the point of no return, as one says. “Just... Just let yourself go. That's all, really.”

With that, the six men all headed back to the warehouse. Michael fell in beside Lincoln at the back of the group, T-Bag sauntering away ahead of them.

“Is it really going to be that horrible?” Michael asked, grinning up at his brother. “You look like you're about to lose your breakfast.”

Lincoln sighed, rubbing his neck. “It's just... I mean, look at your routine. It's perfect. And ours? I mean, T-Bag's got a better act than us! A murderer, Michael. We're going to look like complete idiots on that stage.”

“No, you're not,” Michael said, “You're going to look just as hot as you do on rehearsals.”

Lincoln turned to him, a strange glint in his eyes. “Let's go for a walk.”

“Sure,” Michael said, following Lincoln towards the backside of headquarters. There were no windows on that side; not even small ones along the roof like on the other sides. Sitting down in the knee-height grass, Lincoln glanced at his younger brother. “You nervous about tomorrow?”

“Not really,” Michael replied, sitting down next to his brother. “And why should I be? It's not like it's the end of the world. I was nervous in Fox River. I was nervous when they strapped you to that chair. I was nervous when we went over that wall. This is nothing. No, I'm not nervous.”

Lincoln, almost too casually, said, “Should I be?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Michael. Our act. I know you worked it out, but... Is that really what women want to see?” Lincoln sounded seriously worried.

“Does it have to be aimed at women?” Michael said, smirking at his brother. “As I said, you look hot. Men could be paying just as well.”

Lincoln, gaping at his little brother, didn't have time to react as Michael placed a hand on his cheek, turning the older man's head towards him. Then he leaned in and kissed him.

Relaxing into the kiss, Lincoln laid his arm around Michael's shoulders, pulling him closer. The younger man all but purred, but broke the kiss. Grinning mischievously at his brother, Michael reached into his pocket, pulling out two plastic tubes.

“Lotion time.”

Lincoln took one of the tubes and removed Michael's shirt. As he started rubbing the chemicals into his brother's skin, he felt himself growing hot at the sight and feel of all that skin. The skin that had been covered in tattoos for his sake, and burned for the same reason. Ghosting his fingers over the old burn mark on Michael's shoulder, Lincoln leaned forwards to kiss his neck.

“Linc,” Michael began, trying to turn around.

“Shh, Michael, let me do this for you,” Lincoln muttered, starting to massage the bleacher gently into the skin of Michael's arms. The younger man closed his eyes, let his head droop forwards and exhaled slowly as gentle hands caressed him.

The skin bleacher burned, but Michael didn't flinch. His brother's hands on his skin felt too wonderful. They kept massaging him long after the bleacher had been rubbed in, stroking and sliding over his back, his chest, his stomach and shoulders. Michael moaned and tipped his head back as Lincoln spread one hand over his stomach and kissed his ear.

“Thank you, Michael,” Lincoln whispered, reaching for the other tube.

“For what?” Michael gasped as the cool sensation of moisturiser soothed his skin under those big hands.

“For saving me,” Lincoln breathed in his ear, hands roaming lower down his back. “For everything. For being here now.”

Michael turned around and started tearing at his brother's shirt.

***

“I'll be damned...”

T-Bag couldn't believe his eyes. Right there in the grass thirty feet away from him, Big Brother was showing Pretty just how to get rid of nervous energy. T-Bag couldn't tear his eyes away as Pretty whimpered softly, his skin almost glowing in the moonlight, while the brother slowly lowered his head to Pretty's thighs.

T-Bag had gone outside to rid himself of a distracting hard-on after seeing the trio's act. There was just too much visual stimulation; he grew hard at the thought alone. And now here he was, watching Pretty moan and thrust forwards into his brother's mouth. Lincoln's hands moved to hold his hips down, and suddenly Pretty gasped and arched his body, his brow furrowing in pleasure.

“What the –”

Abruzzi's voice died in his throat as he recognized the two men in the grass and the man watching them. Turning a shocked gaze on T-Bag, he whispered, “Is that...”

T-Bag grinned at him. “That's Pretty and Big Brother, John Boy. They sure look like they're havin' fun. Don't suppose it could be the full moon?”

Abruzzi glared at him. “That's sick, Bagwell, and you know it.”

“So?” the murderer drawled softly, not wanting them to notice him. “It's not like they've got anytin' else left. No family, no duties, no nothin'. Just each other, eh, John?”

T-Bag moved a step closer to the other man. “'Sides, that is one fine piece of tail on Pretty over there,” he whispered, turning hungry eyes back towards the two naked men in the grass.

“But it's his brother,” Abruzzi hissed, “His brother!”

“I know. Makes you wanna join in, don't it?” T-Bag grinned.

“Hell no, Bagwell. You're sick.”

“I may be sick, but still, you ain't any better than me,” T-Bag purred, stepping closer yet to the taller man. “Or are you tryin' to tell me that's a shank in your pocket?”

Abruzzi looked away, then glared back down at the murderer. “If you ever –”

“Hey, don't worry, I understand,” T-Bag whispered, grinning. “That's some serious action over there; and us over here, not gettin' any for months... Ain't a wonder.”

Abruzzi, his cheeks darkening, tried to avoid looking at both the man in front of him and the two men in the grass, but a particularly loud moan drew his attention and he couldn't help it.

“Oh God, harder...” It was Michael's voice. Their position was so intimate; Michael's legs were curled around his brother's waist, Lincoln's arms holding Michael upright as they sat impossibly close, facing each other, the younger brother in the older brother's lap. Michael was caressing Lincoln's cheek, head thrown back in ecstasy as the older man thrust up into him, groaning and holding his brother close.

“Now ain't that a sight for gods...” T-Bag whispered, licking his lips and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Abruzzi felt his body respond to the sight and sounds of the two men making love; he swallowed heavily and willed his body to relax.

It failed.

“I can't watch this,” Abruzzi whispered, more to himself than to the man standing next to him.

“Why? You worried 'bout not gettin' any sleep with that physical condition o' yours?” the Alabamian asked, shifting a heated gaze to the mobster standing next to him. “That can be taken care of.”

“I'm not a faggot,” Abruzzi hissed, angry with himself for not quite believing that at the moment. It was just pent-up frustration. Just the celibacy life of prison and being on the run; nothing else. _Nothing else!_

“I wasn't sayin' you were, John Boy. But those two right there ain't faggots, either. Just think of it as releasin' nervous energy.” And with that, T-Bag slid to his knees in front of the taller man, nimble fingers making quick work of belt and fly.

“Get the – oh holy Jesus,” Abruzzi gasped as T-Bag's mouth closed around him, taking him all in. He'd had blow jobs before but this was so much more intense; hotter, harder, rougher. Tongue, teeth, throat, vibrations, heat; Abruzzi's head tipped back and air was suddenly impossible.

T-Bag grasped the other man's hips for balance and looked up at the face of John Abruzzi in heat. Mouth open, eyes closed, he was completely in T-Bag's power as the smaller man raked his teeth along Abruzzi's cock. Most inmates thought blow jobs beneath them but the complete control it gave him was as arousing to T-Bag as getting one.

Abruzzi grabbed the other man's head, wanting to push him away ( _I'm no faggot, damn it!_ ) but, betrayed by his body, thrust forwards into T-Bag's mouth and moaned instead.

Wet, hot, willing, eager. T-Bag's mouth was all that and more; Abruzzi couldn't stop himself as he started thrusting erratically into that hell-hole of sinful, exquisite pleasure and groaned loudly in the moonlight. Fuck duty. Fuck honour. Fuck faggots and fuck self respect.

And fuck the idea of getting any sleep for the rest of his life.

***

“Michael...” Lincoln said softly, gasping for breath and lowering them both to the ground, Michael lying half on top of him.

“I know,” Michael replied, nuzzling at his brother's neck. Sweat and come was cooling on their skin, hearts were still racing and pleasure was still lingering. It was heavenly.

“My God, Michael, that was –”

Before Lincoln could finish, Michael placed a finger on his lips to silence him. Other sounds were filling the night; sounds none of them had noticed as they writhed against each other but which should have been noticed long ago, judging from the intensity of said sounds.

Moans. Heavy breathing and wanton moans. Raising his head slowly, Michael looked around for the source, and froze in disbelief as he located it.

Leaning against the back wall of headquarters stood none other than John Abruzzi, his mouth open and panting, groans of pleasure emanating from his throat in a low rumble. On his knees before the mobster was T-Bag; the murderer's eyes were closed and the way he clutched at the other man's hips made Michael strongly doubt Abruzzi was doing the forcing here.

“Well, I didn't see that coming,” Lincoln muttered, his eyes big as he took in the sight of the former rivals.

Michael shook his head, but was unable to tear his eyes from them. Abruzzi was thrusting into T-Bag's mouth with abandon. T-Bag was taking it all with no sign of unwillingness, eagerly letting the mobster fuck his mouth. It was rough, uninhibited, merciless. The moonlight enhanced every contrast, each contour, and made the scene even more striking.

“That's...” Lincoln began.

“Magnificent,” Michael finished in a whisper.

“Yeah,” his brother agreed softly, “it is.”

Abruzzi went rigid, silent for a heartbeat, then he growled out something in Italian and T-Bag made a noise as if... enjoying?

Even at a distance, it was obvious the murderer swallowed.

“I knew it couldn't all be sacramental wine,” T-Bag drawled, licking his lips and getting to his feet. Abruzzi looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned on his face and his expression changed to one of disgust.

Abruzzi snarled something at T-Bag; something Michael couldn't hear. Then he quickly did his trousers back up and stalked away. T-Bag stood staring after him, looking moonstruck.

“I'm not sure, but I think Sergeant Sodomy was just exploited,” Lincoln whispered, his voice brimming with laughter. Michael could barely restrain himself from laughing out loud.

“Well well well, if it ain't the Wonder Boys.”

Michael gave a start. The Alabamian was heading straight for them, his usual saunter somewhat restrained. Michael guessed he, too, had a lot of pent-up energy to deal with. He smirked at the thought, before realising he was lying naked on top of his brother. _Oh. Right._

“I must say, boys, that was one helluva show you put up for us,” T-Bag grinned at them, his enthusiasm for voyeurism particularly apparent from their angle.

Michael looked up at the murderer, smirked, then said, “Likewise.”

T-Bag's smirk changed into a scowl. “You mean I put up – not like John Boy did much to help.” He looked livid. Michael suspected he was going to get troublesome again; that glare certainly suggested it.

Michael looked at Lincoln, trying to ask a wordless question. Lincoln grinned evilly at him, then nodded. “I help, you do the dirty work.”

Michael sat up fully, followed by Lincoln. T-Bag was looking at them, suspicion painted all over his face.

“Whatcha doin'?” he asked, alarmed, when Lincoln stood up and closed the slight distance between them. Being approached by a naked Lincoln in the dead of night was apparently not the Alabamian's idea of safety. Michael had to agree with him.

T-Bag struggled, horrified, as Lincoln grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back, and dragged him down to the ground with him. Lincoln, being the stronger of the two, soon had them both sitting in the grass, T-Bag's arms held firmly but painlessly between his own back and Lincoln's chest.

“What the hell –”

“Take it easy, T-Bag,” Michael said, smiling, “I'm just going to make sure you don't do anything stupid before we get on that stage.”


	10. Dealing with it

_“Take it easy, T-Bag,” Michael said, smiling, “I'm just going to make sure you don't do anything stupid before we get on that stage.”_

Michael crawled over to the murderer on hands and knees. “You've been a real annoyance, T-Bag, and I know why. I'm just going to deal with it so you don't go and ruin this for us all.”

T-Bag was breathing heavily, straining against Lincoln's hold on his arms. Lincoln easily held the smaller man still and grinned over his shoulder at Michael. “Go for it, bro,” he said, laughing.

Unhurriedly, like he had not a care in the world, Michael placed himself right between T-Bag's legs and reached for his belt buckle. Undoing belt, buttons and zip, he reached into the white boxers underneath and closed a hand around heated flesh.

“Well, Pretty!” T-Bag gulped, clearly struggling for composure. “If I'da known –”

“Shut up, T-Bag,” Michael grinned, before bending down and licking once, slowly, over the head of T-Bag's cock. A groan was his reward, and he opened his mouth wide, swallowing down as much as he could.

Over T-Bag's shoulder, Lincoln watched his younger brother suck the murderer's cock into his mouth, inch by inch. He felt his own body react to the sight; T-Bag could probably feel it but Lincoln didn't give a shit. The sight was incredible; Michael's flawless face bent over between the thighs of this monster; a monster which Lincoln held down and weakened for his brother.

God damn it but he should have put his trousers back on.

“Damn, Pretty, but you're better at this than I'da thought,” T-Bag moaned, lowering his head back to rest on Lincoln's shoulder. “And Big Brother here ain't too bad for a couch, either.”

Michael continued his ministrations, moving one hand up to assist his mouth and letting the other rest on T-Bag's thigh to steady himself. It didn't take long before the man beneath him started bucking and panting. Michael clamped his lips down around T-Bag and the murderer came in his mouth, groaning loudly and arching his whole body forwards.

Lincoln let go of the older man's arms. T-Bag was still leaning back against him, and Lincoln just wished he would move before he found out just how arousing Lincoln had found the events of the evening. But he didn't move, he just sat there, looking at Michael as he did his trousers back up.

“Get off already,” Lincoln finally said, nudging T-Bag and moving backwards. Unprepared, the smaller man lost balance and toppled to the grass, his head landing in Lincoln's – naked – lap.

“I knew I wasn't the only one with an appreciation for pretty boys,” T-Bag laughed, getting to his feet. “Well, thank you both for a lovely evenin'. Now if you'll excuse me.” Then he left, the saunter back in his stride.

Michael grinned after him, then turned to his brother. “Pretty boys?”

Lincoln grinned back. “As I said, a casual observation.”

“We'll see about that,” Michael said, crawling closer to his brother, still on hands and knees.

“God, Michael, you're lethal when you do that,” Lincoln muttered as his brother slowly approached him.

“Meow,” Michael said, smirking, before throwing himself on top of his brother, knocking them both to the ground.

“Your turn,” Lincoln gasped, Michael's hand already on his cock. “I want you inside me.”

Michael paused for half a second, then, fumbling around in the grass for the lotion, nodded at the older man.

Slippery, tight, hot. Michael moaned loudly as he pushed inside his brother. Lincoln was lying front-down in the grass underneath him, muscle flexing under Michael's hands as they roamed over the older man's broad back and shoulders.

“Shit, this is... Yes, Lincoln, oh God,” Michael rambled as Lincoln bucked back against him. Thrusting, touching, moaning, panting; they moved together like animals in heat and when Lincoln arched his body in ecstasy, Michael bit down on his neck and thrust deep inside him.

Heaving for breath, Michael pulled out of his brother and collapsed on top of him. Lincoln rolled over, pulling Michael with him and rearranging them so his little brother was again lying half on top of him.

“This can't be healthy,” Lincoln muttered.

Michael laughed. “Well, if it kills me, at least I'll go happy.”

And Lincoln had to agree with that.


	11. Intermission

“I can't do this, Papi; I just can't,” Sucre said, gripping Michael's arm suddenly. Sweat was beading on the Puerto Rican's forehead and his eyes were wide with panic. “You hear me? I – can't – _do_ – this!”

“Calm down, Sucre. You can do this, and you're going to do it,” Michael said, feeling the circulation of blood in his arm slowly diminish as Sure tightened his grip.

They were in a corner of the smallish prep room behind stage; one door was leading out into the bar and another onto a flight of steps. The steps lead directly onto the stage. Four other men were crowding the room; Lincoln and Abruzzi were talking their performance to pieces a few feet away, T-Bag was reclining relaxedly against the wall closest to the stage and C-Note was sitting quietly on a bench, looking pensively ahead of him.

“Listen, Sucre. Look at T-Bag over there,” Michael said, applying more foundation to his skin where the bluish shadows were still visible. “Does he look nervous to you? He's about to do the same as you; worse, even! Why do you think he's not freaking out right now?”

“Because he's a psycho,” Sucre hissed insistently.

Michael sniggered. “No. Well, he might be a bit off his rocker, but he's not nervous. Because he looks at all this as _just a joke_. That's all it is to him; a joke. Have you thought about that? You'll never see any of these people again. Maricruz will never know. And when you're standing there with close to one million “Cooper” dollars in your hand, you'll be thinking about this as a joke, too. Now change into your costume!”

Sucre looked at the murderer lounging by the door, then back at Michael. “That's why you're being so calm about this, too, right? 'Cause it's just a joke.”

“Well, actually, the idea of just going out there and taking all my clothes off on stage does kind of appeal to me,” Michael said, grinning at his shocked friend. “But you just consider it a joke, okay?”

Sucre started muttering rapidly in Spanish, his face going pale as he started undressing. Michael sighed with relief. The last thing they needed now, was to have their signature act (the Black Trio didn't know that, but it would be) ruined by nervous fits.

Pep talk time again. Michael called for the other men to gather around him for some last instructions.

“Okay. This is it. In...” Michael glanced at the old, battered watch above the stage door, “ten minutes, the first of us – that would be me – goes on that stage. After that, we'll draw out the time by leaving a break of fifteen minutes between each performance. I start at ten sharp, and after that we just keep it running.

“I spoke to the owner again. If you think about it, our acts don't occupy much of the night. We'll be needing to fill a few hours at least, or people are going to feel cheated. After – or while we're waiting for – our respective performances, we're free to make use of the whole bar. That means we have all the time we want to do... whatever it is we want to do for the tip. You all remember what to do if a customer starts waiving money at you, right?”

A ripple of confirmations went through the small group.

“Just one last thing before I go. This thing that we're about to do, it requires... reinsurance. We have to agree on a mutual pact of behaviour.

“What happens here tonight, stays here. What we're about to do; we're doing it for money and survival, nothing else. Neither during the night or at any other time will there be insults or snide comments over this whole... ordeal. We do whatever we have to do to get money – and I mean it; unless they want to hurt, kill or rape us we do what they want us to. Just for tonight, there is no modesty and no pride, and it won't be mentioned further. You all understand me, right?”

Five men nodded.

“Good. Now swear on it.” Michael offered his hand. One by one, the other men shook it. That was it. No turning back now. _Let the show begin._


	12. Roll out the red carpet

Lincoln, being taller than the others, was shoved to the back of the group as the five men cluttered around the stage door, watching Michael stride purposefully to the front of the stage. They couldn't be seen from the audience, but Lincoln still tried to stay back.

Michael was swinging his hips as he walked, and when he reached the pole he was already tearing off his vest. Spotlights were aimed directly at him, so Lincoln couldn't see anything beyond the silhouette of his brother and the slim pole next to him on stage, but he could hear the noise from the audience.

He'd checked out the bar area before he'd entered the prep room. There had to be at least two hundred customers there! The place was packed; news had apparently travelled faster than any of them had imagined.

Squealing cheers. Catcalls and whistles. Appreciative whoops and quite a few masculine voices encouraging his little brother to, “Take it all off, babe!” It all filled Lincoln's head to the point of bursting; he really, really did not want to go out there.

Michael was down to shirt and boxers now. Women sitting near the catwalk-like stage were waving at him with cash, making him walk around to collect them. Lincoln couldn't see his face, but he knew Michael would be smiling seductively as he lowered himself to hands and knees, crawled over to the edge of the stage, and allowed men and women alike to stuff dollar bills and whatnot in the edge of his boxers.

Lincoln knew some of them would be trying to feel him up and he squirmed at the thought that they would be doing the same to him later.

“Damn, that is one sexy act your brother's puttin' up, eh, Sink?” T-Bag murmured, readjusting his pants in the front. Lincoln felt disgusted before remembering that just the night before, he'd held the murderer down while Michael sucked him off. _Oh. Right._

“Yeah,” Lincoln answered absent-mindedly, thinking back to what it had felt like when he and Michael had been rolling around in the grass on that same night. Oh God; it was turning him on and he was going on stage later. He shouldn't be going on stage with a hard-on, should he?

Then on the other hand, with everything that was going down in the meantime, how the hell could he not?

***

“Nice, Pretty; real nice,” T-Bag said appreciatively when Michael reappeared in the prep room, wearing only his boxers which he was currently trying to empty of cash. Michael, having finally removed all the bills from his underwear, deposited it all on the small table in the middle of the room and promptly started putting some of his costume back on.

“Michael, you got over a hundred dollars!” Lincoln exclaimed, staring at the money.

Michael blushed. “Go for the queers sitting a bit to the right of the stage. They're loaded.”

Abruzzi choked on the water he was drinking. “The queers?” he coughed.

“Or C-Note's girl; she's brought like a dozen friends and they're sitting right near the stage.”

The room was silent for a moment as five men contemplated what they were about to do, and one what he had just done.

“Well, I'm taking five minutes in here first, then I'll go outside and find a girl for the Trio,” Michael said. “You should go out there and check out what we've got to work with.”

***

“Say, when's your friend going on stage? That tall guy with the collar,” a young woman asked. Michael had finally managed to persuade the other men to take a tour of the bar, showing the customers what they had in store. Abruzzi had left quickly, but not before the blonde currently talking to Michael had noticed him.

“He's in the last act,” Michael said, “but he'll be out in half an hour or so.”

The blonde giggled. She was sitting with three other girls as close to the stage as they could get without being on it. They were all tourists; judging from the accent, from the east coast.

“It's her birthday,” another girl explained, “and we've got a lot of cash to spend!” They all cheered and raised their drink in a toast.

Michael smiled. “Then I know just the birthday treat for her...”

***

“I've got your girl,” Michael said, reappearing in the prep room where his brother, former cellie and the mobster were sitting around. C-Note had never returned after doing his round of lap dances; apparently he'd found some customers who wanted more of it. In private.

“Right in front of the stage, there are four American girls, one of them is a blonde with a pink top and jeans. It's her birthday; they're out celebrating. Her friends are going to pay us thirty bucks if she gets to be on stage with John.”

Abruzzi flinched, looking at Michael with the closest thing to fear Michael had ever seen in his eyes. “Me, Fish?”

“Yes, John, you. She's really interested; thinks you're... What were her words again? Oh, right - ´dead sexy`,” Michael cited, grinning at the older man. The other men in the room started laughing as Abruzzi went purple.

“That ain't funny,” he growled.

“Maybe not, but it's lucrative. Be sure to give her what her money's worth.”

“What, y'all waitin' to see me?”

T-Bag strolled into the room, grabbed the jacket from where he'd left it on the floor and looked around for his chair. Lincoln was sitting on it, but quickly rose as the murderer located his prop.

“It's show time!” he grinned, winking at Michael before turning to the stage entrance. Before he headed up the stairs, the Alabamian stopped to lock his gaze with Abruzzi. “You owe me, John Boy, and I will collect. I suggest you prepare yourself.”

With that, T-Bag headed up onto stage, handing the chair to the guy who ran the music. The other men once more gathered around the door, watching.

As always, T-Bag's act was sensual, provocative, sexy. He glided around on stage just as he had on rehearsals, flirted with the audience just as he had Michael, and the noise from the crowd left no room for doubt – it was a success. The men were particularly enthusiastic.

“My God, how can he stand that?” Abruzzi hissed as T-Bag dropped his pants, causing the crowd to erupt in appreciative squeals, and the men to the right to cheer more vigorously than ever. It was obvious the pole was not the only thing erect on that stage.

“I think _stand_ is just the word,” Michael said softly, before falling into a fit of laughter simultaneously with his brother.

“Shut the fuck up, please, Papi! That's just so sick!” Sucre complained, looking ready to empty his stomach.

“I don't need that, Fish; I fucking do not need that now!” Abruzzi said, looking livid. But Michael was still laughing, grabbing Lincoln for support. Lincoln, laughing just as hard as his brother, didn't have the stability to hold them both up, and so the two men tumbled to the floor, laughing and heaving for breath.

“Aw, the fans are already throwin' themselves at my feet,” T-Bag said smugly, returning to the prep room stark naked but loaded with cash. “And I thought them boys in the bar were enthusiastic!”

Michael, still sniggering, got himself off the floor. Lincoln followed shortly after. “I guess you got a good haul, then?”

“I did, Pretty, I did. Never woulda thought so many horny people could crowd together in this shit hole,” the murderer said, throwing his lot of cash to the table. “Now, boys, we've got 'em real nice and ready for ya. They're all yours. You ain't gonna disappoint us now, Black Boys?”

“It's the Black Trio,” Michael said, finding it impossible to resist taunting the three other men just a little.

“Both of you, go somewhere else and act like ass holes,” Lincoln said, his face taking on a slight tinge of green.

Michael smiled at his brother. “Come on, Linc, you know you're not going to disappoint us. Your act is hot as hell, and you know it. Now you just wait here for fifteen minutes before you go on stage, and remember – the blonde with the pink top, first row. Got it?”

Lincoln nodded. Michael turned and left the prep room again, still wearing only parts of his costume – the trousers and his tie, loosely fastened around his neck.


	13. Roll out the red carpet, pt. II

Some five minutes later, T-Bag joined Michael at the bar, the murderer also wearing only his jeans and boots.

“Good job, by the way,” Michael said, “Your act, I mean.”

“Likewise, Pretty, likewise.”

“What's your name, babe?”

Michael and T-Bag both turned to face a man wearing a lilac shirt and snug jeans. His hair was sandy with blonde highlights, he was about the same height as Michael and probably about Lincoln's age.

“Tom,” Michael lied, sticking with the cover names they'd invented and practised. Lincoln had become Dave, T-Bag was Dean, C-Note was Chuck, Sucre was Rico and Abruzzi was Gus. Simple names, but effective. No one had questioned them so far.

“Well, Tom,” the man said, thanking the bartender as six drinks were placed on the counter, “Why don't you help me carry these over to our table, and we'll figure out some way of adding a little to that pretty, green paper in your pockets?”

Michael smiled. “Sure. But there's another act coming up in ten minutes; you don't want to miss it.”

“Well, you can see it just fine from our table,” the man said, also smiling. Michael took the tray of drinks and meekly followed the man in the lilac shirt. Ah, of course. The queers to the right of the stage, if Michael remembered correctly.

“Boys, our drinks are here,” the man said, sitting down in his chair to whistles and cheers from the five other men around the table.

“How about a little private dance?” another of the men asked, a young Hispanic with a red t-shirt.

“Sure,” Michael smiled, “Where?” This really shouldn't be as exciting to him as it was, but the idea of parading his stuff for the six men was really something of a compliment to himself.

“On the table,” one man with a rather girlish voice shouted. The other consented in toasts and giggles, “On the table! On the table!”

Michael stepped onto the table. He was completely visible to the entire bar, but he didn't care. Slowly, in time with the background music (apparently Shakira, though in Spanish), Michael began moving, rolling his hips and shoulders as seductively as he could. The men around the table urged him on with catcalls and the brandishing of green bills. Michael smiled as one of them stood up to tuck a few dollars in the front of his trousers. T-Bag was right – this was easy cash.

***

By the time Lincoln appeared on stage, Michael was sitting in the lilac shirt man's lap, drinking something green and sour. They had, apparently, been pleased with his little solo performance; they were offering him drinks and tempting him to stay a little longer. Michael felt like a pet of some sorts, but strangely enough, it wasn't a bad feeling. It was only for one night, after all.

But then the spotlights were turned on again, and three men started moving on stage. The voice of Alice Cooper filled the bar, and Michael felt himself tense up in anticipation as he saw Lincoln and Abruzzi pass each other, just close enough to brush up against each other but not close enough to bump into each other.

“Jeezes, your friends are hot,” one of the men commented, grinning and watching the performance like a huge bird watching mice in the grass.

Loud squeals and whistles signalled Lincoln picking the girl from the front row up. She giggled, clearly inebriated, as she was deposited in the middle of the stage, the three men starting to circle her. Michael noticed their prior tension seemed gone; the act was again raw and intense like it should be.

When Abruzzi came close to the girl, she grinned deviously at him and reached out, stroking a hand down his torso as he walked around her. Miraculously, the mobster just growled possessively and stepped closer to her, before Lincoln grabbed him and the older man ripped the younger man's coat off.

“She's such a lucky bitch,” one of the men around the table said, earning laughter and agreement from the others.

Michael smirked, looking over to where Sucre was currently putting the girl gently down in her seat, winking at her and mouthing, “Happy Birthday” before returning to stage, joining Lincoln to cling to Abruzzi's leg.

The crowd was all but drooling. As soon as two out of three men were in nothing but boxers and sixpence or collar, customers in the front rows were waving money in the air. The three men on stage split up, stalked over to the edge of the stage and started collecting money.

Lincoln soon found the table where Michael was sitting. The men sitting around it were all cheering and beckoning at him with bills, but Lincoln had caught his brother's eye. Michael was still sitting in the lilac shirt man's lap, licking his lips in a gesture to his brother. Lincoln came over and went to his knees on stage.

“Your friends sure look hot on stage,” Michael's seat said, sneaking another dollar bill into his trouser lining.

“Yeah,” Michael said, looking at Lincoln as the older man returned to the other two, “They do.”

***

“That was amazing, guys, really,” Michael said, smiling. He'd just detached himself from the six men at the table, and was once again removing money from his clothing.

“Not too bad, eh?” Lincoln said shakily, smiling at his brother as he put his black trousers back on.

“Not too bad? Linc, you had them drooling for more! We should do this on a regular basis,” Michael joked, then felt his jaw drop as none of the three men protested but only looked at the floor, red suffusing their cheeks.

“Well... Well, come on, they want you out there,” Michael finally said, barely suppressing a grin. They'd liked it. They'd liked it and oh, Lincoln was never going to hear the end of this. _Pacts don't apply to one's brother. Really, they don't._

“Mike, I need a drink,” Lincoln said, reaching for his black coat. Michael stopped him.

“Not the coat. All of you, keep your costume on, but nothing else. Just the trousers, Linc. They're paying to see skin out there.”

Lincoln heaved a sigh, but left his coat in the prep room and headed for the door to the bar. Michael, smiling widely, followed him. So did Sucre and Abruzzi, the former looking nervous but determined.

“Fish,” Abruzzi suddenly said, stopping dead in his tracks, “they're playing fucking _You can leave your hat on_! I can't fucking take this!”

Michael sniggered at the mobster. “So they like Tom Jones. So what? You've just taken your clothes off to Alice Cooper and now you're freaking out over Tom Jones?”

“It's different,” Abruzzi snarled. “This is fucking... stripper music!”

Michael merely grinned and shook his head, then followed his brother and former cellie.

“Remember the Pact, guys,” Michael said softly as they reached the bar, “whatever it takes.”

Sucre nodded, looking around. Abruzzi gave a non-committal grunt and Lincoln merely ordered a drink.

“Let me buy that for you,” a woman said. She and her friend were sitting at the bar. The woman was tall and slim, with dark hair and dark eyes. She smiled at Lincoln and paid the bartender. “You interested in some lucrative activities?”

Lincoln smiled carefully back at her. “Probably, yeah.”

The woman laughed. Her friend giggled silently. “I'll give you ten bucks,” the woman said, “to kiss one of your friends. With tongue, mind; a real kiss. Like a private peep show. How about it?”

Lincoln shrugged. “Point him out.”

The woman smiled triumphantly, then started surveying the four men sitting at the bar. Finally, her eyes came to rest on Michael. “Him. I want him,” she said, pointing.

The two brothers locked eyes. One set of eyes asked permission, another begged for it. Lincoln nodded. “Here?”

“Sure,” the woman said, “unless you're shy.” She laughed, joined by her friend.

Michael slid from his seat and stepped close to Lincoln. “With tongue, right?”

“Well, for ten bucks, I'll be expecting some good stuff.”

Lincoln smiled at the younger man, then reached out and placed a hand behind Michael's slender neck. Pulling him closer, Lincoln started at his brother's collar bone, before kissing, licking and nipping his way up his throat, along his jawline, until reaching soft, open lips.

Michael placed his hands against Lincoln's chest, feeling hot skin under his fingers. The kiss was hot, wet, needy and eager. Tongues and lips mated, and Michael closed his eyes as his brother stroked a hand up and down his side.

“Wow,” the woman breathed, and Michael smiled against his brother's lips, pushing closer before breaking the kiss. He moved to suck at Lincoln's earlobe, then found the pulse point on the older man's throat and laved it with tongue and teeth alike. Lincoln groaned and tipped his head back, eyes closed and mouth open.

Slowly moving apart, the brothers locked eyes again, both smiling slightly.

The dark-haired woman let out a breath. “You boys sure know how to kiss,” she said, producing a ten dollar bill from her pocket. Putting it in Lincoln's belt, she looked at Michael. “I'd say you've done that before.” Then she emptied the last of her drink, and whispered something to her friend. They left.

“You haven't, right?” Sucre sounded uncertain, and his voice was raspy. Obviously, he'd been staring open-mouthed at them.

Michael laughed. “Don't worry, Sucre. Money and survival.” But he didn't deny it. Sucre seemed content, however, and turned back to his drink. Abruzzi kept staring at them, his cheeks heating up, until Michael gave him a wink and a sly smile. The mobster glared at him, then turned away.

“Y'know, Pretty, them queers over there, they just saw you an' Big Brother... performing over here.” T-Bag sidled up to the bar, smiling smugly at Michael. “An' they want you to accompany me right back to 'em.”

Michael looked at T-Bag, trying to detect a lie. Then he looked over at the table where the men were, indeed, beckoning him to come over. He gave his brother a reassuring look and followed the Alabamian.

“With tongue,” the Hispanic said, “and some touching.”

Michael inclined his head, then turned to T-Bag. “Do it.”

T-Bag didn't have to be asked twice. With a hungry purr, he took hold of Michael's head, licked his lips, and closed the distance between their mouths with one swift movement.

Michael closed his eyes and relaxed into the kiss. The murderer was licking along Michael's bottom lip, then that oh-so-agile tongue was tickling his palate and hands were caressing almost gently along his cheeks. Michael started snaking one hand up the older man's side, until he found his naked chest. The other hand held a firm grip around the Alabamian's waist.

“I've been waitin' for this, Pretty,” T-Bag hissed, breaking the kiss for air before attacking Michael's swollen lips again. One hand held the younger man's face still while the other suddenly grabbed hold of his backside. Michael gave a start, but immediately went with the flow and kissed the older man back with vigour. T-Bag groaned and grabbed a firmer hold as Michael flicked his fingers over the other man's left nipple.

They moved apart, panting, and Michael turned to the men at the table, offering them a slight smile. “To your liking?”

“Jeezes, babe, to our liking?” one of the men said, throwing a ten dollar bill to the table. “Half as much would have kept me out of the naughty web sites for a week!”

The other men laughed, before another ten dollar bill was thrown to the table. “One each; you've earned it. But: I want you to give them to each other.” It was the lilac shirt man.

Michael smirked at the older man, then took one of the bills. Slowly sliding his hand along T-Bag's belt, he found the buckle and slipped the bill beneath it. T-Bag hissed as Michael's fingers brushed his hip bones on their retreat, but bent to pick up the other bill.

“Where does it go?” the murderer asked, grinning at Michael.

“Deep!” one of the men shouted, causing the whole table (and the next two) to erupt in laughter. T-Bag's grin widened, then he grabbed the front of Michael's pants, and slid the hand holding the bill into them. Michael couldn't contain a gasp as the murderer's hand brushed against his cock, depositing the money _in_ his boxers.

“Thanks, gentlemen,” T-Bag said to the men at the table, then left, Michael trailing after him.


	14. Who works hard for the money?

“Him? You can't be serious,” Abruzzi said, trying not to sound rude. The girl they'd brought on stage had sought him out as soon as he'd left the bar, bought him drinks and talked him into sitting with her party.

Really, it wasn't that bad. The girls sat in his lap to feed him snacks, or stuffed dollar bills in his trouser lining while touching his thighs or chest. They all giggled like mad, and he felt like a regular Playboy, but it could have been worse.

At least, until now.

“Why not?” the blonde said, giggling some more. “They're all doing it.”

Abruzzi didn't answer. She wanted him to kiss another of the guys. Like Fish and Sink. He'd noticed Fish and Bagwell doing it, too. And then suddenly, everybody was paying to see them paired up, kissing and touching. At one point, he'd even seen Sucre and Fish leave for the emergency exit behind a giggling group of girls – he recognized one of them as C-Note's girl – and he wasn't sure he wanted to know what they were doing out there.

C-Note and Sink. Sucre and Fish. Sink and Fish. Bagwell and Fish. And until now, he'd thought he was safe with these giggling girls, who just wanted to feel him up in their corner and buy him drinks. But suddenly, there she sat in his lap, asking him to kiss...

“Dean! Get over here.”

At the sound of his fake name, T-Bag turned around from where he'd been watching Michael and Lincoln get paid for their fourth kiss. The grin that spread over the murderer's face was, if possible, even more painful to Abruzzi than the knowledge of what he was about to do.

“The ladies are requesting a private show,” Abruzzi explained, realising he currently looked for all the world like the head of the Family he had once been a part of – surrounded by girls, drinks and cash. “You and me.”

“Well, we really shouldn't be disappointin' the ladies, then,” T-Bag said, letting his eyes roam over the table. “Right, ladies?”

“Right!” came a cheery, four-voiced squeal.

“Over here,” the blonde said, squirming off Abruzzi's lap. “Come sit down in the couch here.”

T-Bag smiled at her, then all but crawled over until he was situated happily next to Abruzzi. “Mind if I sit next to you... Gus?”

Abruzzi snarled and looked at the smaller man in disgust. Then, taking one last look at the eager girls across the table, he turned towards T-Bag and laid one hand around his throat. “Necessary precaution,” he told the blonde, who seemed positively enraptured by the power play between the two men.

“Come on, _Gus_ , just shut up an' kiss me,” T-Bag drawled, smirking.

Abruzzi growled, then unceremoniously yanked the other man closer by holding his shoulder in a vice grip with one hand. Closing his eyes, Abruzzi pressed his lips to T-Bag's and left the lead to the other man.

T-Bag opened his mouth, then licked along Abruzzi's lips, wordlessly asking him to open them. When the other man seemed frozen, T-Bag decided desperate measures were in order. Snaking one hand around Abruzzi's neck, he decided to copy Pretty's technique and let his other hand play over the naked chest of the mobster.

Gasping as nimble fingers found his nipple, Abruzzi opened his mouth and gave T-Bag all the access he needed. Within seconds, tongues were fighting for dominance as hands clawed on skin or fisted in hair.

The girls all squealed in delight as Abruzzi growled aggressively and started pushing against T-Bag. The smaller man let himself be shoved against the back of the sofa, one of Abruzzi's knees between his own and the taller man's tongue deep in his mouth.

“Hell yeah, come on, boy,” T-Bag moaned as Abruzzi broke away, panting and glaring at the murderer.

The nearest girl reached over and slid a ten dollar bill into Abruzzi's trouser lining. “Go on. Further. If you go all the way, I'll give you fifty,” she said. It was obvious she was drunk, but her friends all cheered the idea.

“All the way?” Abruzzi asked, his breath heavy.

“Blow him,” the blonde said, licking her lips, “right here.”

“I can't –” Abruzzi began, then remembered what he'd sworn. He might have lost self respect and honour, but he still had his word. And his word held true.

“You make sure no one else sees, then,” he said, his voice strained. The girls all shrieked with glee as Abruzzi leaned in and kissed T-Bag again, before biting his way down roughly. T-Bag moaned and tipped his head back as Abruzzi reached his hip bones, nipping at the skin there.

Opening the murderer's belt buckle, Abruzzi closed his eyes briefly and swallowed, trying to come to terms with what he was about to do. He decided it was better not to, and decided instead to just block it all out.

“Oh yeah, come on, just like that,” T-Bag panted as Abruzzi slowly sucked the smaller man's cock into his mouth. He never gagged, not even when he felt T-Bag hit the back of his throat and moan deeply. He only stopped when he'd taken the other man all in; he felt T-Bag's cock fill his mouth and the top of his throat completely.

“Fuck!” T-Bag gasped as Abruzzi growled, the vibrations making the murderer arch off the couch and thrust up into Abruzzi's mouth. “Oh fuck me, John Boy; you're –”

Abruzzi never got to hear what he was; at that moment, he grabbed the hips beneath him harshly and went to work for real. He sucked, he tongued, he growled and he even teethed the hard flesh in his mouth. The Alabamian was moaning, bucking and panting; this was better even than Pretty had been the night before!

“Shit!” T-Bag whimpered – _whimpered_ – as he came in John Abruzzi's mouth, mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure and body tense as he felt Abruzzi swallow around him.

“Yeah, shit,” the blonde agreed, wetting her lips and faintly putting a few bills on the table.

“Wow-ee!” the Alabamian groaned, doing his pants back up. “You sure are a hell of a suck, Gus!”

John Abruzzi sat back in his seat, utterly shocked and amazed at what had just happened. He could still taste T-Bag in his mouth and unconsciously, he licked his lips.

The girls around the table all drunkenly came to the conclusion that they were out of cash, and so rose unsteadily to their feet, leaving more than the promised fifty on the table.

“You're really hot, Gus,” the blonde said, apparently in an attempt at being coquettish. “So if you're staying in town a few days... here's my number.” She scrawled something unintelligible on a piece of paper and stuffed that, too, in his trouser lining. Then, giggling and squealing, she followed her friends out of the room.

“Yeah, and John Boy ain't too bad lookin' tonight either,” T-Bag said, looking at the man who had just sucked him off. Cash was protruding from his trousers and collar alike, and his hair, until now tied back in an elastic, was messy and dishevelled.

“I'm just gonna go put this in the prep room,” Abruzzi muttered, rising from his seat and grabbing the bills still lying on the table. With that, he left a very confused, but sated, T-Bag behind.

***

“C-Note, where have you been all night?” Michael asked, a bit breathless after the somewhat intense kiss he'd just shared with his brother. It was the sixth one that night.

“Working for our money,” C-Note replied, producing a bunch of green paper. “Where do we put it?”

“In the prep room. I'll join you; I have to put mine in as well,” Michael said.

***

“Y'know, we don't have to do all this fightin' and insultin', John Boy.”

Abruzzi was sitting in the prep room, staring stonily ahead of him. T-Bag was again reclining against the wall, still in nothing but trousers and boots. The cash was all hidden in the sleeves of Michael's shirt, which was hidden in one of the sleeves of Lincoln's coat.

“I can't stand you,” Abruzzi snarled, finally meeting the gaze of the murderer, “and you're no more fond of me.”

“True,” the Alabamian admitted, stepping closer to the sitting man, “and once we get to that money, we split up and you'll be free to forever hate my memory, and I'll go off and keep doin' bad things in another country.

“But until that happens, John Boy, we're stuck together, whether you like it or not. And while you may be an ugly bastard and I'm just a scrawny faggot to you...” the smaller man slowly approached the man sitting like a statue on a chair, “... you're still one helluva suck, and judgin' from your reaction to my mouth yesterday, I'd say that's another thang we've got in common.”

Suddenly, Abruzzi shot to his feet and advanced on the murderer, one hand going straight for the smaller man's throat and the other shoving him up against the wall. “I told you never to mention that again,” he snarled, his face barely an inch from T-Bag's face.

“And I told you I would collect, John Boy. I did,” T-Bag wheezed, his air supply dangerously close to being cut off.

“So what're you saying?” Abruzzi snarled, looming over the Alabamian as they stood pressed against the wall.

T-Bag slowly licked his lips and lifted one leg to actually hook around Abruzzi's hip.

“I'm sayin' what I've been tryin' to tell you for the last two weeks now. Fuck me, John Boy. Fuck me like there ain't no tomorrow. Or are you too stupid to get even that?”

With a vicious growl, Abruzzi dipped his head and crushed his lips to the other man's. Grinding against T-Bag, Abruzzi never released his hold on the other man's throat but let his other hand rove freely over naked skin. Shoulders, stomach, chest, arms. He didn't know why but he wanted to feel it; needed it.

The kiss was aggressive, violent, demanding. Abruzzi finally let go of T-Bag's throat, needing both hands to rip at his belt. The murderer was panting but lost no time in following the other man's lead; the ties at Abruzzi's waist gave way for quick fingers and soon both baggy trousers and snug jeans were pushed down, shoved down around boots and kicked off to land in crumpled heaps on the floor.

“Still not wearing anything underneath, Bagwell?” Abruzzi snarled, shoving the other man to the floor and following him down.

“Would you believe me if I said I was hopin' for a run-in with you?” T-Bag said, his snigger turning into a moan as Abruzzi turned him roughly around, bending him over so he was on his hands and knees in front of the mobster.

“You're the only one sick enough for it,” Abruzzi said, pushing his boxers down, desperate to feel tight heat surround him.

“Come on, John Boy, get on with it,” T-Bag panted, as needy as Abruzzi but ready to die with that secret.

As he pushed into T-Bag, Abruzzi groaned and clutched at the smaller man's hips. So tight, so hot, oh God, so...

“Shit, shit,” T-Bag moaned, his arms barely supporting him as Abruzzi filled him completely, stretched him, before pulling out, only to shove harshly back in.

“You still want me to fuck you, Bagwell?” Abruzzi grunted, grinding his hips against the other man's and holding him still as he mercilessly thrust into him.

“Hell yeah, John Boy,” the murderer panted, moving one hand to his own erection, starting to stroke it. “I want you to fuck me so hard you –”

Abruzzi thrust hard and T-Bag cried out in half pain, half pleasure. The taller man was clutching at T-Bag's hips, thrusting and pulling and panting. The man on all fours were whimpering, begging John Boy to take him, and John Boy complied, fucking the man beneath him better than he had any woman in his life.

Too tight; too good; too intense. Abruzzi gave in and came, thrusting hard a few more times and spending himself inside T-Bag with an animalistic groan. T-Bag moaned in pleasure and stroked harder and faster, pumping his hand up and down until he came, grunting quietly and letting himself sink to the floor underneath Abruzzi.

The two men simply lay there for a while, breath heaving and pulses racing, before Abruzzi realised he was still inside T-Bag and that he was unconsciously nuzzling at the smaller man's neck.

Quickly pulling himself out and getting to his knees, Abruzzi pulled his boxers back up and searched for his trousers.

“Ahem.”

Both men whipped around. Leaning back against a closed door stood Michael, looking at them both with an odd expression on his face.

“Next time, you might want to lock the door. I think C-Note's throwing up outside.”


	15. So long and thanks for all the cash

Abruzzi stared at the younger man standing by the door, an odd half-smile curving his lips. On the floor, T-Bag sniggered as he slowly picked his jeans up, then rose to join Abruzzi.

“Well, I ain't takin' insults from a man in a loincloth, very seriously,” the murderer drawled, before stepping over to the rapidly colouring mobster. “'Sides, each to his own, ain't that right, John Boy?” Before Abruzzi could act, T-Bag smacked his backside and retreated enough to avoid the punch meant for the Alabamian's face.

“Shut it, Bagwell!” the mobster roared, looking absolutely livid.

“You two have a strange way of showing affection, but as you said, each to his own,” Michael said, grinning like the proverbial cat who got the nearly as proverbial cream. “I just wanted to tell you that the other guys are coming in; it's nearly two o'clock and the place is closing.”

T-Bag slowly pulled his jeans on, apparently in no hurry what so ever to conceal his nakedness. Abruzzi's movements seemed somewhat more hurried, but Michael said nothing, only stepped over to the coat as if not having just witnessed the two other men in the room going at it like rabbits in heat.

“Hey, Michael, how much did we get?” Lincoln said, barging into the room with a huge grin on his face. The ladies had never stopped buying him drinks, and he had never stopped accepting them. Michael had realised his brother was somewhat inebriated, but ignored it.

“I don't know, we haven't counted it yet,” he said, turning back to the coat. As he emptied the cash onto the table, all six men gathered around to watch. The pile of bills was impressive, to say the least.

“Holy shit,” C-Note muttered, still looking a little uneasy. He kept throwing glances at T-Bag and Abruzzi, but said nothing.

After counting and re-counting the money, Michael looked up at his partners in crime. “We got an average of nearly two hundred and fifty dollars each,” he said softly, “which means there is about fifteen hundred dollars here. Not withstanding our share of the entrance tickets.”

Stunned silence reigned for a moment.

“Two hundred and fifty... each?” Abruzzi said, voice gruff.

Michael nodded.

“We got two hundred and fifty dollars each for _that_?” Sucre said.

Michael nodded.

“If I'd have known, I would have done this a long time ago,” C-Note said in a near whisper.

“And the entrance tickets?” Lincoln asked, looking at Michael with big eyes.

“Two hundred and three customers,” Michael said, “One thousand and fifteen dollars for us.”

Silence again as six men thought about the last time they'd made over four hundred dollars in four hours. Nothing came to mind, except for Abruzzi, who'd made a lot more with shippings of illegal goods on several occasions.

“Well. I guess we ain't too bad lookin' in our skins, then,” T-Bag concluded pensively, tongue flicking over his lips.

Michael wanted to laugh out loud. “No, we ´ain't`. Not bad at all.”


End file.
